Whoooooo Hooooooo

So only two more days until bilssful unemployment. That's right, boys and girls! In defiance of every economic indicator the Bush administration could muster my way, I boldly, intrepidly, and optimistically insisted on quitting my job. Because I can do better! So there. Already I have a range of options:

1) I may, in fact, sleep the entire month of June. Not likely, but possible. My lack of adequate health insurance coverage has left me with an undiagnosed medical condition whose major symptom is fatigue. Simply put I'm tired and I'm gonna get some rest!

2) I will definitely post more often to my blog. Now that the little office ass-monkey who complained about my posts is gone, I will spend my waking hours composing coherent and hopefully compelling daily missives.

3) I will get in touch with my inner documinatrix. I have a few ideas for projects to shoot and nothing but sweet time to do them. I may even spring for a firewire so I can figure out how to edit my rough footage.

4) I will travel. I've put out a mooch alert warning friends in NYC and DC that their couches are good enough for me. Look out Mid-Atlantic! I'm back.

5) I may work. The laws of dating apply to work. As soon as word was out I had had quit my job, I was offered more work. I'll write about that when it happens.

In other news, Michael Jackson's defense has rested. There's a joke there, but I'm not up for it. I'm only relaying the information for consistency's sake.

This weekend I'm off for R&R.

Wrung out

I have no clue why it's so difficult for me to keep my postings up at a regular pace. I apologize. This is no way to run a railroad.
In general, I am just feeling more reflective and less expressive. I am three weeks away from being professionally unfettered, that's making me feel a little jittery. I am trying to maintain my exercise schedule, with mixed results. I am generally trying to organize my thoughts and figure of a plan for living that I can abide with for awhile.
So the blogging has gone wayward.
It's bit gross, but yesterday a cut a huge gash in the back of my foot. I was trying to drain a blister, but I went too deep and before I knew it I had gone too far. There's no blood, but I'm afraid to wear a closed shoe and worried about dirt getting into the open cut. As soon as I did it, I wondered if I were sabotaging myself. I mean there was no good reason for me too cut across the blister like I did. Maybe I was trying to derail my walking schedule subconsciously. I wonder how often I sabotage myself and in what kind of ways.
I am also having those comatose sleeps I made famous in high school. This time sans doughnuts. Today I was absolutely out of commission for almost two hours. I don't know if this is simply fatigue but it has been cutting into the productivity of my weekends. I burn a lot of daylight with these naps. I have to remember to ask about them when I go to the doctor Tuesday...as well as the leg numbness. Tuesday may be my last rip to the doctor for a while. I'll be out of insurance while I search for my new thing.
Since it was Mother's Day my grandmother came over for the afternoon. We had a very pleasant meal.
So now it's 11PM and since I slept this afternoon, I'm still awake. I'm going to give it a shot though. I need to get up early.

If everything were possible...

"You have not because you ask not..."
These words have been resonating in my head for days. Someone said them to me and I've been thinking about them ever since. What if everything I want is just for the asking? A thrilling, humbling, somewhat frightening prospect.
I've been grappling with my difficulties with asking for help but I also need to deal with my disavowal of desire. A simple question. What do you want. I have hardly a reply. I can't even remember when I stopped wanting or why. On one level not wanting is a means of control...of self and even others. If you do not want, other people cannot affect you. Their inconsistencies and shortcomings cannot knock you off course. It all really ties back to the help issue. The almost irrational need to be self-contained, self-sufficient. To connect with others one must ask for help, must be able then to articulate what one wants, needs, and expects of others. Then one must be prepared for inevitable dissapointment, but as I left out of the equation blissful satisfaction.
You have not because you ask not...
Its time for me to start asking.

Law and Order

After all that hand-wringing I did about Martha Stewart and Lil Kim, who figured I'd be throwing myself at the mercy of the court...
Last month I ended up with a ticket after a surly NOPD officer pulled me over one morning. I was just about to push the send button at the city website electronic payment page, when I decided to go to court and state my case. In fact, I was not speeding--that's what they all say, I surely used my turn indicator, and I definitely did not have an expired registration. So I figured, what the heck. The worse that could happen is that I would have to pay the $372 fine but just maybe Justice would lift her blindfold and smile on me. So instead of the payment page, I swung over to the page where you make court appointments.
This morning was the day. I showed up an hour early and had stuffed two long books in my bag so I'd be prepared for a long morning. I turned in my summons and tried to take my mind off things by reading...
Well, just when things were starting to get boring in walked an angel. The daughter of my grandmother's former neighbor, and now an attorney. She looked at my ticket and volunteered to help me out. And I didn't even know I needed helping. When my name was called she came with me into the judge's chambers, they exchanged muffled words and before I knew what happened, I was back in the main courtroom. My paperwork now said I had not been wearing my seatbelt. My rigid, black-white logic center started to protest, "I was too wearing my seatbelt!" But I took a deep breath instead, and then smiled as I overheard the clerk telling ***** that my fine was $27. I'll take that!***** waved off my profuse thanks and left me standing at the cashier's window.
I am just light and giddy. As I've always believed--but sometimes forgotten-- whenever we take a step forward on faith, God rushes forward to meet us. I told ***** about my career moves and she gave me an encouraging smile. You don't have to know what will happen next, just that you will move forward. And I am moving ahead. Help and grace will meet you right where you are. This is a good day!

watch this space

Oh world...these past few weeks I have been terrbily silent. I apologize. I have, as my friend says, made moves. Some I will not describe at this time, but suffice it to say, I will soon have lots more time to write on my blog. I will also be able to elevate my subject matter from musings about my waistline and whatnot to more sublime subject matter, I hope.
I feel as if I have come to some sort of watershed moment. Like maybe my quarterlife crisis may really be over. For the past few days, in conversations with friends I have been receiving all kinds of new information that I was simply not able to hear before. I also realize that I have embraced my fears and anxieties. By embrace I mean rather than fighting or denying them, I am moving forward with them. I feel pretty damn good.
On more mundane fronts, perhaps because of my newly relaxed countenance, I am getting hit on by high school students. Que horrible! Perhaps the young man I encountered on the street was merely practicing so as to be prepared for his peers. But maybe this Demi-Ashton thing has shifted the zeitgeist in ways I do not fully appreciate. Perhaps Mary Kay Letourneau has been transformed into some sort of belwether for the future of male-female relationships. I mean if fifty is the new thirty and forty is the old thirty, then I would be around fifteen. Maybe high school boys should be hitting on me after all. And if we can find a place to hang out where I can have a cocktail that wraps up in time for them to make their curfew, maybe I'll give the next young whippersnapper the chance to make an indecent proposal.
And I almost forgot to complain about my taxes. Probably because there's really no point in doing so. I owe, I owe, so what can I do? I mailed in the installment payment form and I'll keep my fingers crossed. It makes no sense that I earn HALF as much as I did and end up paying more. Thats's the fate of an unsheltered, undependented spinster I guess.

Different day, same sh....

Michael Jackson: f..... up in court again today.
What words could describe?

Martha Libre!

So I've been taken to task for not actually mentioning Lil Kim last time out. I love hecklers!
Even though it's morally suspect on my part I have a huge problem with the government prosecuting either Lil Kim or Martha Stewart.
In fact, I had an ongoing dialogue going with a member of the bar about the whole Martha Stewart situation. I feel sorry for her. She's a mean-spirited, obsessive-compulsive, tart baking dingbat. When I was in grad school I'd sit in my shabby apartment reading that glossy rag of hers wondering why couldn't I find just the right shade of fondant for my homemade pastries. It is OK to care about the details, dammit.
So she catches a case--as the kids say. And what is she charged with? Insider trading. Excuse my french, but what the fuck...I mean I think it is totally appropriate to use that charge for corporate executives and high level employees. But I'll tell you if my broker calls me and tells me I could lose my tank top on a deal, I'm selling. I can't see how that could possibly be considered a crime in a free market economy. Martha was an investor--a pretty minor one at that-- not a principal. And though she knew the bio-tech guy--dated her daughter, ewww--by all accounts she got her info from her broker, Bogdanovich. Good broker. If I heard after the fact that my broker could have prevented me from losing my tank top...clutch the pearls!
So Martha sold her stocks. The feds couldn't get her on that so they took her down for lying to the government and ostensibly obstructing justice. Now the lying to the government thing rested on different colored ink notes on the broker's files...I have three different pens on my desk right now. Just because the notes were written in different colored ink doesn't mean the notes were doctored is a foregone conclusion.
And in fact, the government could not make a compelling, iron-tight case on the insider trading so they charge her with lying. Again WTF! I know it is morally wrong to lie. I avoid doing it as much as possible. But really. Lying? Don't you have a Fifth amendment right against self-incrimination? And if the feds can get you on lying to them to stay out of trouble, aren't they going to need a whole lot of jail cells?
Imagine you're Martha...Ms. Stewart, did you commit a federal offense by falsifying the chronology of events that led up to your stock exchange? Ms. Stewart's reply: "Um, no."
Of course she lied. Who's gonna tell the feds they're guilty? I watch L&O. First, you get lawyered up then you deny, deny, deny. That's the American way, baby.
Meanwhile across town..."No I did not kill my wife. I was fishing that night." OK, maybe that isn't a good example. How about this. "No I did not kill my wife. I went back to the restaurant to get my gun and when I came back she had already been shot." Ok, yeah, that one will work.
So Martha ends up wearing a commissary-knit poncho and an ankle bracelet cause she lawyered up and denied? That seems like a waste of my tax dollars.
And what the hell does that have to do with Lil Kim. She raised her right hand and swore she didn't know those gun-toting knuckleheads who shot up Hot 97. And the government pulled out photographs, letters and DNA to prove she lied. So fuckin' what.
Every person in America has denied someone they know out of embarassment at some point. "Hey Chuckie, your mom's outside in rollers and hot pants..." Chuckie: "Nah-uh...that's not my mom." Get the cuffs, Danno. What would you expect Kim to say. Yeah, I know those mofos...they my homies. Get real. Another waste of my tax dollars.
Meanwhile, the government can't find the money I put into Social Security and I don't have enough money for lunch and gasoline. Gimme a break.
You know who should be prosecuted?...Justin Timberlake. I didn't know Janet's breast was gonna come out. My ass, he didn't. The stiffest penalty he's gotten is a revocation of his temporary ghetto pass. Now he's ass out in Cameron Diaz's house. That's crime people. That's crime.
I have to go on without Lil Kim's fashion debacles and inappropriate rhymes...That's like a day without sunshine. The government is out to get us.

Dial-up Sux

Yes...It's true. Dial up is the bane of technological progress. It's like taking your fancy convertible down an unpaved dirt path. But dial-up is what I have and dial-up is what I must use.
I am most excited to have a 'new' computer. And as soon as I figure out how to install the new driver, I should be able to edit video footage from my camcorder and create all kinds of havoc. Whoo-hoo.
So maybe I'll put my picture up later. Kisses!

Free Lil Kim

I’m in one of the moods where I might say or do anything. A funky mood. A positive influence might inspire jokes and a little unexpected fun. A cross word and it’s on and cracking.
Yeah, baby. I’m walking the line. I’m edgy. And I like it. It’s the time of year where every time you leave the house you risk being dressed inappropriately for the weather. My choice this morning is just all wrong. In the mornings I loathe feeling the cold, so I overcompensated by putting on a heavy sweater. Just in case that wasn’t bad enough, I put on my leather car coat. Now I’m sweating and fighting to keep my eyelids propped open.
As much I as I am enjoying how I’m feeling, it’s probably best I lay low. I mean it really could go either way. And it’s like my little secret. I’m feeling all Sade inside—you know what I mean—but nobody knows.
I don’t even know what going on in the world that I could comment on. Baretta got off, Peterson didn’t. Michael Jackson’s still wearing his pajamas to court. When I first heard about these things, I had strong opinions. Now I could give a rat’s ass. Baretta probably wanted his wife dead; Peterson had no business fishing on Xmas eve and telling he was at the Eiffel Tower while he was attending a candlelight vigil. Both of them are off their marks. But I guess insofar as Baretta only was a threat to the dearly departed, I’m not worried about him walking the streets. On the other hand, Scott Peterson is a crazy mofo and solitary might be just the trick to curtail his comings and goings.
I see Michael Jackson like I see Bush on the WTC- he hit before, he probably will hit again so how can you plausibly claim you couldn’t see it coming? How can you claim this fool is completely innocent when he’s been ‘under a cloud of suspicion’ since Kriss Kross were kids. On the other hand, I’m not saying it justifies MJ’s actions, but who sends their kids to sleepovers at the kid-friendly compound of a wacky, 47-year old, drug addled, wig and pancake makeup wearing…dude. Even weirder he’s a former pop star. Now that he’s wearing his pajama pants and a jacket to court, I find it hard to believe he’s been containing the crazy in other contexts. What could probably be the motive for a woman to send her kids to hang out with that ninny? And on the opposite side of my WTC imagery, what the hell was MJ thinking? It’s beautiful to share your bed? He’s craaaaaazzzzy! And I say that with all the residual affection I ever had for Michael Jackson intact. Off the Wall was my jam—as they say. I even had a Michael Jackson poster …until I discovered Prince and Mike started getting those nose jobs, then it was a wrap. I turned in my MJ fan interest at the Wiz….But he’s talented. He’s weird for anybody to see, but that in and of itself is not a crime. While I suspect otherwise, let’s say for argument’s sake that MJ is telling the truth and he didn’t lay a hand on those boys. OK…well what’s with the porn parties and Jesus juice. That’s the goofiest shit I ever heard.
I have trouble understanding the porn stash right off the bat. Why was MJ stockpiling porn magazines like they were government bonds? Why not just go to Scores? Heck, Luke would probably make him king of Club Rolexx every night of the week. Why drink wine out of soda can? He can swig his from the bottle or a brown paper bag. Nobody would raise an eyebrow.
Unless it did have something to do with isolating little boys from their families…If that happened, MJ gets no love from me. And if it did, he’s craftier than a set of Lego’s because he was dastardly enough to victimize the child of a wholly unsympathetic, amoral mother who by credible account has been trying to pimp this boy for years. It would not surprise me if MJ moonwalks right out the courtroom. You can accuse a man of molesting you in one breath and concede you lied under oath in court on previous occasions. It’s called reasonable doubt. If he does get off, I hope for everyone involved’s sake someone checks MJ into some sort of treatment facility. He is a menace to himself and others. He looks high everyday in court and the whole situation is a five alarm cry. If MJ is innocent, he has got to be the craziest mofo on the planet for getting himself into this situation.

Swaddled--continued

She breezed right into work. The tension crackled in the air. When she got to her seat, there was a note in it. I hate it when people put notes on your damn chair, she thought. Next thing she knew she was in her boss' office. Drone, drone, drone. All of sudden a voice that sounded like hers spoke up. She heard it say that today was her last day. Her boss rose to protest. But as her mind processed the words, she felt her hand gesture him to stop. Today was her last day. Notice, schotice. If she hurried, she could be sipping cafe au lait within the hour...

Author's break: I don't know how this is going to work without a workplace. I had all these Hawthorne-like references to Bartleby the Scrivener in mind. But now, no little nitwit can make the case that I'm writing about work. Satisfied?

Reality Check

Let me state the obvious. First, my name is on the blog address. So anyone who knows who I am or wants to know who I am can figure out additional information about me. I used my name in the address because I want people to know I am writing again...all kinds of writing. Which gets to the second point. "Swaddled" is fiction. Like many stories some elements paralled things about me. But it is entirely fiction. Some dim bulb at my job is complaining that I am posting things about where I work on my blog. Remember 'dooced?' I am not posting things about my job or where I work. Check if you don't believe me. I said some things about me--which I will continue to do--but nothing about where I work.
I was pretty pissed to get this report, but it makes no sense to defend the indefensible. I will say this, especially for the benefit of the little coward at my job who reports that I spend 'all my time' at the computer. There is a computer at my desk. If you are looking over my shoulder looking for something to complain about, it definitely looks like I spend 'all my time' at the computer. Many people here have a computer at their desk, and it looks like they spend 'all their time' at the computer too. It was pretty obvious from the time stamps when I posted. All the time it took to cut, paste, and post to the blog was done at my job. I am a bad person. From now on, I will do all my cutting, pasting, and posting somewhere else. That means it will be even longer between blogs. Which gets to my next gripe, posts every week= all the time? Whatever!
My last point is that whoever reported that I spend "all my time" at the computer and some of it on this blog apparently spends a lot of their time watching me. Way to be productive. So now I know what you did and you can wonder if I know who you are and what I reported about you...
For my friends, whom I invited to read my blog..."Swaddled" will continue. If you know me, you can already tell that the narrator is not me. You can also tell what overlaps and what doesn't with me-the author. I really want to explore fictive writing and I won't be stopped by someone who is too dim-witted to tell the difference between expository writing and fiction. Too bad. I will also continue--when I have time- to write and post esoteric essays. I won't bother to label which is which, because for those whom these posts are directed it neither makes a difference nor is hard to distinguish.
I really hate it when some gremlin tries to squeeze the joy out of my party orange, so I'm not having it... I will post again.

Swaddled ---continued

I scooped the cell phone from my bag and sat back up in the driver's seat in one smooth motion. It was D...... Well, what the fuck did he want? Anything we had in the past had dried up and blown away. But I hardly had the heart or the courage to stick a fork in it. Though he grated my nerves, sometimes insulted my sensibilities and just plain got on my nerves, I had a soft spot for the guy. I really didn't see the point of taking his call. There was always the chance that whatever he had to say would completely wreck my mood and I was glum enough about work. I dropped the phone on the passenger seat. I'll call him back later, I promised to no one.
Leaving the parkway, I turned onto St. Charles Avenue. I loved the oak lined horizon. Once again, I conjured alternatives to work. I could ride the streetcar all morning smelling the smoky vapors as the electric car clattered down the track. From there I could walk the side streets of the Garden District, looking at houses, browsing little boutiques.
In the distance, I saw the campus. I focused to find a parking space. The two adjacent colleges meant that it was nearly impossible to find a space after 8:15 and it was almost 8:45. Finally I saw a spot about five blocks away from campus. It would be nine am before I made it to my desk. So what. At least I bothered to come.
All day long I processed medical records. At first, it was a relief. Such a change from my last job. The work only engaged maybe a third of my attention. The rest I could set free. Sometimes I'd listen to talk radio, sometimes I'd find an internet article I could read over my busy hands...other days I'd talk on the telephone, receiver cradled against my shoulder as I shuffled papers and filled in logs. If I wanted a change of pace, I could go to the front desk and help the harried med students or answer the phones. People had strange ideas about what a medical research center was and sometimes we got the wackiest calls. A woman called claiming to have proof her great grandfather had discovered the polio vaccine before Salk; parents would call asking how to tell if their kids had the flu or a cold. Random people would walk in looking for information about health insurance. All the medical records from the university hospital were closed; only medical personnel can access them. There were shelves and shelves of journals, these, textbooks, and other documents. The med students always wanted course materials. Trawling for old exams, I bet. They'd pore through the boxes in teams of three, looking bleary eyed and desperate. A few would come in to study and end up asleep, face flat on a cool table in the quiet reading room. Every once in a while a faculty member would host an event, but soon enough all the activity would stop. Some days would be pretty hectic, but more often than not, things were pretty quiet.
As soon as I arrive, I log on to my computer and check my email. If no one's around I read the paper online too. Then I 'll look up and see it's only ten minutes after nine. I still have seven hours to kill.

Swaddled- A Fictional Tale

I vaguely heard the beeping from my alarm. It was five am. Another day. Great, I thought dryly. The alarm was set early so I could get out for a walk.
Every night I pulled the covers over my head vowing that the next morning would be the one I got up and exercised. Got moving. Greeted the day. So far, when the morning came despite my sincere desire to go walking, I was overwhelmed with resentment. The day was not my own. I had to go to work. I had to be there by a certain time. I had to stay there all day. When I realized it was a new day, I would have a bright idea. Maybe get some cafe au lait and beignets down by the river. Maybe read a new book. Nope. Got to go to work...
This morning I toyed with rolling over, pulling the down back over my head. The morning chill made the sheets feel even warmer. Even though they're only cotton, my body rubbed against the mattress like it was covered in cashmere. Instead of stretching out, I roll into a tight ball. And drift back to twilight.
When I come to consciousness again, I don't move right away. First I try and guess what time it is. Six-thirty, seven? I reach between the pillows and grab the remote control. Finally shifting my weight, I aim the control to turn on the television. When I hear Matt and Katie, more calculations in my brain. If I get moving right now, I could still leave for work 'on time.' Sometimes I take the challenge. Sometimes I say, fuck it, I'm already late, why bother.
This morning I split the difference. Instead of seven-thirty, I leave the house at eight. I figure I won't get to work by eight-thirty. So what. Maybe I should stop for breakfast. If I'm going to be late, there's no need to be hungry too. I think about it all through rush hour traffic on the parkway. McDonald's? Wendy's? Starbuck's? Who gives a ? I can't believe I am still dragging my ass to this joke of a job anyway. When I got fired from my last job, I took it really hard. My self-esteem was lagging and my mother swooped in and convinced me to move back home. It's not that I hate it here, but it's pretty close. I'm in my mid-thirties, up to my ass in debt. And now I'm back at home with a crap-tastic job. Excellent. I realize my cell phone is ringing. How the hell am I going to reach the phone and steer at the same time? And who the hell calls during commute time? I hold the wheel with my left hand and lean over to fish the cell phone out of my purse. When I check the caller id, I wonder if this is a call I want to take...

Awaiting Spring

There are so many ways that we hold ourselves back from our greatest possibilities: self-doubt, self- sabotage...We bog ourselves down with the everyday, we surround ourselves with negativity, we create failure. Often we aren't even aware that we are stacking the deck against ourselves.
Rather than radical changes sometimes it is very small adjustments in behavior that can make huge differences in outcomes. This morning I chose to have an Egg McMuffin for breakfast. Even though I had just watched SuperSize Me. Even though I could have had a more healthy option--grits--when I got to campus. Even though I could prepare for morning breakfasts on the weekends. My alarm is now set for five AM. I still get up at around quarter of six though. On the positive side, though the weather took a cooler turn, I have been getting my midday walks in this week. I have been taking care of my skin. I've been taking my vitamin supplement and the two tablespoons of flaxseed oil everyday.
With the eminent rise in gasoline price, I am thinking again of getting a bus pass. Riding while my car was in the shop was hellish. It was time consuming and sometimes uncomfortable. But a bus pass would save me gas money, would guarantee an additional thirty minutes a day of walking, and a chance to enjoy the outdoors. I have revamped my desire to relocate. By month's end, I'd like to have my resume ready to go--finally--and get started on networking.
I'm getting rid of the clutter in my surroundings--I shredded so much stuff that I filled two big garbage bags.
The whole process feels like learning to juggle. I have to keep up what I am doing to improve every single aspect of my life at the same time. I am trying to be in the moment and making decisions that will accumulate into a a positive day. I am being mindful without worrying.

What moves me

Whenever I've come to post, I've managed to churn out some body-obsessed rant. I was laying awake last night tries to figure out what holds me back, physically. I literally find myself not moving and it is a metaphor, I believe, for my life.

I have a great thrist for stillness, serenity, peace. That has driven some of my inactivity. When my body is still, my mind and imagination soar. I can go to faraway places and contemplate unreachable extremes. I can approach the limits of sensory inquiry. But without the benefit of experience. In many ways, this has been helpful. When I am still, I can think and reason to conclusion. I can sort what is good and bad. And I can move without obstacle.

But then, at the same time, there is no escaping the fact that my stillness does not produce tangible evidence of progress. There is no movement.

I made a move this morning. I intend to follow it with another...

Shocking revelation

OK...I know she was joking. But right before I left the house my mother suggested I wear a girdle. ouch. I know I need to lose some weight. But really, a girdle. I guess it is time to face facts. Already unhappy at size 12, I am getting fatter. I must act. Decisively.
I finally got around to watching the Oprah Boot Camp episode (I love TiVo!). No white food? I guess that means grits. What the hell am I going to eat for breakfast? I am guessing more pancakes from Wendy's are out of the question....
Oh woe. To think I was once a size 6 (well, that was ridiculous and I looked like I was about to blow over). It is time to rouse myself out of bed and back down to a size 9...

Health kicked

Since I bought my car in 1999, I've gained twenty pounds. I'm not saying there's a causal relationship; but I exercise less since I've gotten a car. It is also true that since I've gotten a car, I've also worked at a sedentary positions. So I don't get a lot of exercise at work and I don't get much after work.
A friend who's a personal trainer suggests that if I would walk strenuously for one hour per day, I could lose the weight in several weeks time. I got this advice in October. Since then, I have struggled to find a time in my day that I could commit to the hour constitutional.

I tried after work...Well, as soon as fall fell and daylight savings time was over that fell apart. I get home, change clothes, decompress...I'm ready to start walking at 7PM. But now it's dark. At first I ignored my mother's warnings, but there were, in fact, a couple of times I felt unsafe. So that ended the evening walk. Maybe it'll be different when daylight savings time comes back.

I tried during lunch. For many months, I walked at least forty minutes at lunchtime. But I'm sure the meal I consumed made up for the effort. And I was wolfing down my lunch...If it takes twenty minutes to get seated and twenty mintues to walk back, that leaves twenty minutes to order, eat and pay the check. So I started going to places closer to campus, which meant a shorter walk, and less calories burned.

I tried indoor exercise. Too much furniture, not enough personal space. We have too many couches and cats under foot to make this work.

So that leaves the glaring option of early morning. My alarm clock has been set for 5:45 since spring 2004. I have not yet been able to actually get out of bed until 6:30. I think this is psychological issues with other things, but the result is that I do not get out of bed and walk for an hour. I have left my exercise clothes out. I have gone to sleep earlier. Nothing has countered this near paralytic sensation I get every weekday morning that I come to consciousness and contemplate having to go to work. Exercise has become a casualty.

While I grapple with the issue of exercise, knowing intellectually that the morning walk is the clear solution and even having experienced the good post-exercise feeling, I have turned my attention to my diet.

This morning I bought a fruit bowl at Wendy's. For a ridiculously steep price, I got a spread of fresh fruit with a dip cup of flavored, sweetened yogurt. That would have been a wonderful, healthy shot...except the fruit bowl is chaser for the stack of pancakes I had first. I have become a flavor junkie. When I am anxious, I need to taste something and that has led to poor nutrition and overeating. A parallel problem is that even though I enjoy healthy food, I am not stocking it at home. So when I get these bouts, I am eating what my parents have which is not necessarily healthy.

My point? I don't know. I ramble. I do know I need to get a grip on my eating and my exercise. Riding the bus this week has been enlightening. My biggest issue has been how time-ineffective it has been. For example, it would take me two hours each way to commute to work. That is unacceptable. Wasted time in my opinion. Because you can't multi-task. Monday evening I was lucky to wrangle a seat at all and for the entire ride a very pretty, but ripe-smelling young lady has lodged herself so closely against me that I could hardly think straight much less read. Yesterday, I did manage to read part of an article but I was constantly distracted by people yelling into their cellphones and some young man who tapped me on the shoulder to compliment me on my hair--whatever.

So I'm flabby and frustrated. I saw a woman on television who is my height and weight. I also used my videocamera to take an objective look at myself. I am not as fat as I feel. I am below my healthy BMI and understand that the weight I consider ideal other people think is 'skinny' for me. What is the case is that I even if my weight is not a health issue, I am not as fit as I could or want to be. And explanations be damned, I have to do something about that.

Follow-up and new chat--Mark Burnett...

So I promised the fur would fly, so of course it didn't. When I came in for those meetings yesterday, I was prepared to leave my job. That bode well for me in a number of ways. Most important, I did not compromise and leave the table feeling like I hadn't fairly represented myself or challenged issues that were relevant for me. I still think growing older is growing into oneself. For me that means embracing rather than suppressing myself and my sensibilities.

Today's topic: I read in the New York Times that one of the contestant's in upcoming boxing reality show The Contender has committed suicide. Producer Mark Burnett has promised that the death of Najai Turpin will not affect the content of the show and that he will not edit the show in anyway to reflect the occurrence. *I am paraphrasing, not intentionally plagiarizing the NYT. So if my memory is working today, cut me some slack.* Commentators are already speculating about the relevance of Turpin being African American to this brou-haha.

First, condolences to Turpin's family. According to the article he has a very young daughter and I'm sure that he was very driven by his willingness to participate in the contest which provided one million dollars for the winning boxer. But my focus is not on Turpin, but Mark Burnett...

This season's Apprentice had three African American participants. One has already become the first ever contestant to quit, and the two remaining get less screen time and development than their counterparts. My opinion is that since neither of the two appear to fit an obvious racial stereotype, it has been difficult for the editors to carve a storyline around them.

On the first season, America loved (and apparently continues when they remember) to hate Omarosa. Even black media outlets, decried Omarosa's treachery and called her a black bitch for letting her 'brother' Kwame down in the clutch. White america hated Omarosa long before she left Kwame hanging. She was haughty and detached...who wouldn't dislike her. While her white female counterparts fought and whined, Omarosa refused to compliment their mini-skirts, told them to take their hands off her and generally refused to be like the self-effacing, subordinate black women they usually interacted with...She didn't want to be friends with them and she wanted to win. How un-Oprah-like! Black women are friendly and helpful at work; they make less money, don't get promoted, and even when they boss people around no one gets mad because they never get promoted to positions of authority...That damn Omarosa. For the second season, the new girls got together and booted Stacie J out because they were 'afraid' she was crazy and might hurt herself or them....Black women ARE scary! Kwame was a great guy, he was quiet and friendly and finished second. But that was Omarosa's fault...of course he wasn't passed over for the job because Trump didn't recognize his qualifications.

And Survivor is no better...the first season featured a black man from New Jersey who was constantly edited in being nothing other than shiftless...laying in the hammock so much he such have developed a bedsore and seemingly contributing absolutely nothing to his team by way of strategy or effort. He was all potential energy, spring up every now and then to drag something from here to there. Another season featuring a sassy, finger-waving, neck-rolling body builder. And, of course, there's Vecepia who won a million by being meek. There's your reward.

So that's how black people fare on Mark Burnett shows. They unstable, disposable, ultimately aberrational creatures. We can't complain they aren't being represented, and ol' Mark says he's not sure if he's responsible for how they get represented...

I wonder what the Contender will be like and how Najai Turpin has been depicted...

Haven

Haven
This is going to be a two post day. After fretting with a friend over an article I saw about a guy losing his job for blogging about it--getting dooced--I am going to risk exactly that. In about four hours, I am going to be ready to blow. I have back-to-back meetings about my job. More later..............

I've already noted that blogs don't write themselves and that I need a damn computer so I can update more frequently. So no more about that.

So on to other topics...

I've been in this reflective mode about my life for about ever, but especially the past three years. I'm starting to feel pretty enlightened. On the one hand, I am really satisfied that I reordered my priorities and gave up a career that was taking me away from the values and experiences I really want my life to be about. On the other, I've replaced that career path with several babysteps toward I'm not sure where. I actually have a pretty cool idea of what I'd like to do, careerwise, but I've been much too self-deprecating to believe I could pursue it. Instead I've been making lateral moves and painfully small steps forward. I've also literally built a coccoon around myself (must lose twenty pounds). Of course, that's just how it is. As I've already covered, I'm done with the pity parties and weeping jags. I'm actually feeling pretty good (aside from some wicked bouts with PMS...another day). These days I'm actually feeling like I'm ready to spread out and deal with whatever may come my way.

I was talking with a friend about a lecture Cornel West gave where he mentioned the pain of living an examined life. I used to marvel at how people could go along without having invested any thought into who they were or where their lives were headed. Then I spent a time wishing I could be among them. Examination in and of itself does not lead to enlightment or satisfaction. Sometimes the best you can achieve is acceptance. What I've realized is that my challenge is to become more like myself and instead of changing myself to suit life, to change my life to suit me.
Certainly not original revelations, but I am at a point where I can see past my fears to my own self-interest.

In my youth, I learned by painful experience to consider only myself. Once an adult, I decided that way of being was a survival strategy that had been successful, but at the cost of my isolation from others. Letting others in means risking disappointment and pain, but it also means the possibility of abundance and joy. So it's like Powerball...even if you think the odds suck, you can't win if you don't play.