I was perusing job openings online when I came upon a position that spoke directly to my background. Great, I thought. Oh wait. No. The position is in Urbandale Iowa. I live in New York City. Thoughts immediately began to tumble around my head. Could I move to the mid West? My personality does well in many European cities but could I swing it in middle America? I Googled “living in Urbandale” and up pops apartments. A two bedroom townhouse rents for a thousand dollars. Washer and dryer hookup, fitness center on the premises, a pool, central AC, and the list goes on. A far cry from the flooding apartment and riff raff neighbors I currently deal with in my East Harlem neighborhood.
Could I really leave it all behind? I’m sitting in front of my Macbook contemplating this fantasy when I click on another link. Registered sex offenders in Urbandale. They have 16 registered offenders. Mhh, interesting. That seems pretty low I guess. Curious, I look up New York City. 686 registered offenders. Wow. To be fair NYC has a population of more than eight million people and Urbandale has a mere forty-two thousand. Not a real comparison.
Curious I scroll down the page and the site lists the name, offense(s), address, age and race of each offender. I didn’t expect to find all that. Folks on there have committed all kinds of heinous acts. My daydream of leaving big city life fades to the stream of faces of men I’ve dated, hung out with or have been pursued by. As I read the names of offenders I think of the weird, sketchy and just plain aggressive men and women I’ve crossed paths with and my city paranoia kicks in. I truly don’t need anymore but it’s too late now I’m scrolling down the list of names imagining the faces of each person.
I’m too impatient to Google past boyfriends or guys I never let it go past a hug with but I promise myself that even before a hug, tea or coffee can ensue more vetting needs to happen with any future meet ups. I then remember the story of a friends daughter whose co-worker was charged with pedophilia with a minor. Then there is the friend of a friend who was raped in her doorway in Brooklyn a few years back.
Oh yeah, they’ll be no night caps happening anytime too soon up in here.
Seeking smart nerdy type that can run faster than a speeding bullet and tolerate a moody alpha female. Kryptonite-toting-Caesar-complex twerps need not apply.
So I have a Superman complex, you already hate me so do me a favor and shut up.
Most many people have their own version of the ideal person for them that’s based on looks and how that person will act and make them feel all of the time. Many call this person their soul mate or “the one.” The truth is your soul mate is actually your imaginary friend.
Everyone is running around looking for their imaginary friend to buddy up with for the rest of a very imaginary life. Imaginary kids that will do just as you tell them to do. Imaginary youth for eternity. Perfection.
The desire for your real-life mate to change is really you saying, “You will change and be just like my imaginary lover.” If this isn’t crazy than I don’t know what is. Yet we listen to romantic songs, read romantic books and watch romantic movies wishing we had what they have, which by the way are made up stories also.
Folks who are in good relationships found the one for them because they weren’t living in their imaginary world trying to find Ken or Barbie. And honestly I think Ken is a little vain and he doesn’t strike me as the smartest cookie in the world. He’s also probably pretty lazy since everyone has doted on him due to his good looks. All he has to do is flash that winning smile, flip a lock of that golden yellow hair and the world is his oyster. But are you really going to be his indentured servant just to be with him? He cheats with all the other Barbie wannabe’s after Barbie divorced his lazy ass, he drinks too much and has a pot belly cause he’s too lazy to work out. Oh and his hair line is receding. At 19 he was hot to trot but at 42 without any upkeep, not so much.
What did you say? Oh, your Ken wouldn’t be like that? Dream on. There’s just one Ken baby, this is it and there’s no changing him.
With the announcement of the The Ladders new Signature program that guarantees you will land a job within six months or your money back, I’m disheartened at how todays market is so against the American worker. $2495 smack-a-roos for job coaching, a resume overhaul and job leads.
I know job coaches have existed for ages. Resume service agencies have been raging since the dot com boom, but really? Companies pay search firms for talent. Now the talent has to pay a mint to find the job also?
I do understand nothing comes for free in this world. A Ladders month-to-month subscription runs $15 bucks a month for candidates and at 2.6 million subscribers that makes Marc a very wealthy fellow, along with the fees charged to companies to post positions and search the subscriber database.
But if The Ladders was the answer then wouldn’t his subscriber numbers be lower? If 2.6 million people are still looking then what says twenty-five hundred dollars will bring me any closer to the right job? And with the market the way it is and the flakiness of many companies, unless you have a written 1-year contract and a buyout clause to cover a company breaking it, you can easily find yourself unemployed within 3-6 months after starting a new gig. For reasons that include budget cutbacks, they just didn’t like you, etc… We’ve all seen fellow colleagues or been victim to coming on board only to find yourself pushed/bullied out within months due to internal politics or a toxic work environment.
Call me paranoid or a pessimist but for that kind of money I will continue to try the old school way of finding a job through networking, back door tactics, LinkedIn and good old luck. For that amount of cash I’ve got several bills screaming my name.
I spent the Easter weekend exploring art, creativity and self expression; away from the noise and contention of the unhappy and unsatisfied. I bought these flowers at Whole Foods several days before and was inspired. The goal was to capture their beauty through words and photography. I bought the strawberry plant below at the farmers market in Union Square, I’m very excited about its possibilities.
These two are adorable. I can only imagine the conversation:
“Hey you’re sitting right on my head!”
“But I want to be in the picture too.”
“Wait till the next one, now get off me sis!”
“Come a little closer. I have something to tell you.”
The Morning After
Everything is perfect just the way it is.
The stems are having an intricate conversation all their own.
Spring is Here! Joy.
Bursting with Happiness.
The flower changed over the days but it is still beautiful even
with its petals falling.
- The Morning After
First bloom playing Peek-A-Boo.
My strawberry plant newly potted.
Unpredictable weather, which means you’re lugging your umbrella around with you on sunny days unless you’re sure to have four dollars in your pocket for a cheap quickie on the street.
It will take you double the amount of time to get anywhere on the metro. Especially if you’re fucking around with the 6 train or you’re foolish enough to try and go anywhere that’s more than a mile from your house on the weekend.
Unless you have a job lead for someone, some kind of material “hookup” to offer or some juicy ass gossip you will find yourself pretty friendless.
New York men are so noncommittal and emotionally retarded they can’t even commit to casual sex. Therefore, if you want to have regular sex it will have to be with a harem of several different people.
Bloomberg always has a semi smirk on his face.
Tourists are annoying anywhere they are in the city. They take up the entire sidewalk and then look up at the sky completely oblivious to their surroundings. Do the tourists know something we New Yorkers don’t? Does God live in the sky above NYC? I may invest in a row paddle and just start waving the shit back and forth in front of me to make a freaking path.
Too many New York women think busting peoples balls and being a bitch is what being a New York woman is all about. It’s not. Smart, independent, witty, charming, endearing, sexy, jetsetting, worldly, creative, rich, broke, poor, ceiling busters, whistle blowers, artistic, realistic, idealistic, single moms, fighters of injustice are New York women.
Unless you don’t eat because you are trying to control your weight [which speaks to roughly forty-five percent of the NYC population] you spend sixty percent of you check on rent and the other forty goes towards food.
To afford Time Warner cable and a vacation outside of NYC you need a sugar daddy/mamma or your parents are footing the bill. [note: the author of this blog has none of the above therefore she does not have cable and cannot afford to go on vacation].
New Yorkers have short attentions spans and lack patience. If you meet someone who does not have a short attention span or they seem to have loads of patience you’re initial thought is something is wrong with them.
All New Yorkers suffer from some varying level of paranoia.
Spring is in the air, the sun shines boldly in the sky. One would think a positive outlook should be on everyone’s horizon but it’s not. I recently read somewhere that the mind can produce up to sixty thousand thoughts a day. Sounds absurd, but how many of us has the patience to verify that count? The mind is a phenomenon; humanity a mystery. Both religion and science try to explain it but it remains the enigma of yesteryear and today.
So, I find it bizarre and mind-blowing (pun intended) when people claim to know someone else better than they know themselves. If science and religion in the last ten thousand years has been unable to break the human mind down in a page or less why do so many people busy themselves trying to box one another into spaces too tight to breathe? And when that person does or says something outside of that tight little box they find themselves at the brunt end of severe judgment and criticism.
Case in point, the woman who went out of her way to liken a young woman to that of an animal for eating spaghetti on a subway train; the man I barely know who accuses me of being a hypocrite after reading my blog; a woman of whom I’m vaguely familiar with approaches me from behind and when I turn to face her, her smiles fades and she blurts “Oh, it’s you” and walks away after an uncomfortable silence (I had changed my hair that day); the person who criticizes you for eating eggs with toast and jam or too many carbs, or not organic; the person who tells me my use of the word should is bad and reprimands me in a public forum for use of said word (I wasn’t even talking to her).
Criticism, judgment, assumptions, jealousy, depression, sadness, anger, hate and fear: the last thing any of us desires is someone to project their identification with the above emotions onto us.
So here’s a bit of Monday afternoon advice, the next time you feel what someone else is doing, saying, wearing, eating, drinking, reading, listening, etc… is so wrong hold your tongue a moment, take a look in the mirror and with a pen and pad in hand write down a few notes. If you struggle to look at the image reflecting back at you then you’ve got some work to do. Not me.
Desire, we all experience it to varying degrees; a craving for pizza, a taste for something sweet; the desire for affection, attention, acceptance, status, money or to have more than others.
Desire is not necessarily a bad thing. Mankind is here today because of it. People have children out of desire. Without it we would not eat when hungry, or we’d go outside pick up a handful of mud and stuff it into our mouths. Without desire we would not inhale after an exhale.
Problems arise when I desire a lover, marriage certificate, friend, attention more than I desire the well-being of myself. When I desire the big house and car yet don’t have the means to pay for it. I want long hair but haven’t taken care of the hair I have. I want unadulterated attention, love and affection but have no idea how to give it, because I don’t love myself.
When we stop craving for these external things that’s when they come, if they should be in our lives. The breath comes easy because I’m not focused in every single one. I’m not regretting that last breath I took because I believe I didn’t do it perfectly. Neither am I blind with anxiety about the next breath to come. Unless we are sick or dying we don’t even think about breathing, yet it is a desire.
So what if we tried – just for a day, then a week, then a month – to take that desire and give it a timeout, refocus our brainpower towards something more efficient. Such as a job, hobby, exercise, eating healthy, starting a business, taking a class, volunteering, travel, treating oneself with respect and kindness so that treating others with that same respect and kindness comes easy and naturally; when our desires are out of balance with our lives we become unhappy, lonely, destitute people. Let’s flip the script and busy ourselves with something better.
Is it that you need glasses? If so I would have paid for the $20 dollar eye exam at Cohen’s. Do you have a drinking problem and therefore you’re aim is off? There’s AA. But to be honest my patience for your incompetence has run out. I’m on empty.
I can understand if I was the alcoholic, drug abuser, cutter, stalker, emotionally cockeyed one but I’m in therapy working my ass off. And yet I’m left with another year of utter disappointment.
The year before last I had more gay boyfriends than I could account for. Thing is I was born a woman and feminine. Also, I hate to admit this but I’m not a lesbian either. If I were I would definitely have several girlfriends’ right now. Believe me, I like girls. I do. But a fulltime relationship with one is way too much for me. Women need too much attention. That’s right I said it. Plus, it seems to my own demise, I’m really attracted to men.
So far you are two for two. Strike outs, that is.
In the past year I thought you were getting your act together. But I was so wrong. You sent me a SUV full of emotionally dysfunctional men; stalkers, the possessive, alcoholics, paranoids, phobics, the socially inept, gigolo’s and the “I know everything about you after I read your blog.” Really? What the hell? I have no desire becoming the next Jane Doe after one of the crazies goes ballistic on my ass after I decided to wear my green socks instead of the blue striped ones. You get where I’m coming from?
Needless to say, it’s over. There’s no point arguing with me. Within the next six months I’ll be on a plane on my way to country where I don’t know the language. And for what it’s worth happy Valentine’s Day, now go find someone else’s life to exacerbate.
The report has just come in, crackheads who don’t do crack are becoming a widespread phenomena across the country. According to the most recent police reports, less than 30 days into the New Year, crackhead behavior and incidents has ballooned a whopping 5000% compared to this time last year.
Listen to an exchange with a recent victim from an area called Palintown, in the state of Teabagger, where crackhead behavior seems to be especially high.
Victim: I was just walking down the street, when this crackhead who hadn’t done any crack tried to sell me his text messages from his crackberry. He then threw the damn crackberry device at me when I said no mutha-effer, why the hell would I buy a damn text message from you for $5 dollars when I already pay an arm and a leg for unlimited text messages from Verizon!
Journalist: Sir, did you happen to get a good look at the crackhead in question?
Victim: As a matter of fact I think it may have been Naomi Campbell, but my green contacts were knocked out of my eyes during the assault so I didn’t get a clear look at that mutha-effers face! But believe you me if I catch that mutha, and my contacts stay in my eyes, there will be all hell to pay!
Journalist: Thank you sir for sharing that ridiculous story.
What a crackhead, trying to resell text messages. Well that’s the news. Tune in to KNB as we plan to follow this story until we get down to the bottom of this insanity. KNB News is not your average Fox! Peace out.
Jim, back to you.
***due to the horrible reaction the journalist experienced while looking at images of crackheads, we are unable to post any pictures of these people for fear of assaulting the eyes of normal folks. Just be on the damn look out!
It’s a 3am and I’m knee-deep in the trenches of writing a query letter in hopes of finding a literary agent. Obsessing about the damn letter, I’m finding it difficult to go to bed. I was up till 7am yesterday. Took a morning nap then got up and went back at it. Draft four is much slimmer streamlined but now I’m feeling like it’s all in vain. I’m a horrible writer. I’m wasting my time. My novels are shit. Who was I to think I could be a writer. Everyone is better than me. Wouldn’t you agree? Life is shit. Did I say that already?
Even if the feedback is true and the story I’m trying to sell is good I know for a fact I’m not good with grammar and my sentence structuring skills could use a second run through elementary school. I’m going to be rejected. Not interesting. Sorry you remind of the stinky kid that wanted to be on the kickball team back in grade school!
Perhaps, I’m just sleepy; suffering from cabin fever. It could be those damn vegetarian canned beans I keep buying filled with pesticides and other GMO’s or are they HMO’s? Too lazy to go to the grocery store and buy real organic food because I’m trying to save money. But what money am I saving? I keep getting hungry and have to trudge downstairs to the bodega!
I should find stories about other writers who feel like shit about themselves and then maybe I won’t feel so bad. Misery loves company.
I’ll make a pact with myself. Tomorrow (or better yet later on today) I will do some yoga and meditate. Maybe that’s all I need. That and Shakespeare to come and take over my body for a good couple of years. Or any damn writer with some freaking talent. Homer, Wheatley, Updike.
I’m going to bed to forget my woe. I should be drinking but I’m too broke to buy the good stuff. Broke but my bourgeois tendencies live strong. How about that irony?