12:15 pm. 2.14.13
The first time his song was played on the radio. It was a warm, sunny day, unusual for the season. He threw open the window and yelled into the street below: “I’m on the radio!!” Two exclamation points needed.
He turned and gathered me up and squeezed me tight. We joined our dog in a jump-hop sequence. The smile that spread across his face and the look in his eyes was enough to tell me that we are doing the right thing.
His first day on the radio was one of the good days. A day when I can feel how right this is in my bones. Most days, though, I am overwhelmed by the knowledge that he will never be fully mine. There is a part of him that will always belong to the wild, unrestrained creative. That is the part of loving a musician that they don’t warn you about. Reveling in their glow and sharing in their successes is easy. It’s the sharing of his heart, the constant awareness that there are three of us in the room that weighs me down. But. But! The reasons why he is meant for this are the reasons why I love him so deeply. I can’t have him without the other, and really, I wouldn’t want it any other way.
After about two months of waiting on the job to be approved by the board, posted in the job listings, applied to, interviewed for, and considered, my delightful company chose to offer me a promotion!
The position is freshly created, and I will be the first to fill it. I am nervous about not having a precedent, but also very excited to design the details of the position myself.
I still LOVE my current job, but I feel ready to wrap my arms around something new. Bring it on, challenges.
In related news, how does one work a leather pencil skirt or leggings into work-appropriate dress?
I am way late to this party, but it was so good. I’ve brought audio-books back into my life, as my commute to work is about 40 minutes each way. This one was read by Tina, so it was extra hilarious.
Tina Fey fits into my favorite category of feminists: those who know that being a woman is a fantastic thing to be, and throw out the archaic ideas of radical feminism calling for burning bras and beating men at their own game. There is no place for that anymore. We need to make our own game, and Tina Fey is doing just that.
I especially liked the story about Amy Poehler and Jimmy Fallon:
Amy Poehler was new to SNL and we were all crowded into the seventeenth-floor writers’ room, waiting for the Wednesday read-through to start. There were always a lot of noisy “comedy bits” going on in that room. Amy was in the middle of some such nonsense with Seth Meyers across the table, and she did something vulgar as a joke. I can’t remember what it was exactly, except it was dirty and loud and “unladylike.”
Jimmy Fallon, who was arguably the star of the show at the time, turned to her and in a faux-squeamish voice said: “Stop that! It’s not cute! I don’t like it.”
Amy dropped what she was doing, went black in the eyes for a second, and wheeled around on him. “I don’t fucking care if you like it.” Jimmy was visibly startled. Amy went right back to enjoying her ridiculous bit …
With that exchange, a cosmic shift took place. Amy made it clear that she wasn’t there to be cute. She wasn’t there to play wives and girlfriends in the boys’ scenes. She was there to do what she wanted to do and she did not fucking care if you like it …
I’m up for a promotion at work. 14 months in.
I am currently a direct care worker for a residential treatment facility for teenage girls with behavior problems.
My pay is live-able, but lousy. My hours are horrific (getting off work at 9p, going back in at 5a) and my days off are irregular. I am in charge of ensuring my clients physical safety, emotional stability, and managing their interpersonal conflicts.
Sometimes this means a hug, a few minutes of encouragement, and a shove in the right direction. Sometimes this means physically restraining them, to the detriment of my health, if it is necessary. Sometimes this means allowing a client to use me as the out for their emotions: yelling, cursing, blaming, manipulating, etc. Sometimes this means being firm and consistent.
It is always trying. It is often rewarding.
What this particular promotion would mean for me:
- continuing to work for my lovely company
- pay increase
- better schedule
- less traumatic work
Keep your fingers crossed, yeah?
An Object of Beauty | Steve Martin (yes, that Steve Martin)
Novel. Easy to read. Interesting and well-researched. Two thumbs up.
Once in a Lifetime
- by Talking Heads
- on Remain in Light
- 2,778 plays
- I met him when I was 17. We had attended the same high school, though a few years apart. I was fresh and new in all the ways that a person can be fresh and new. My heart was whole, my head was full of ideas about how my life was going to turn out, and I was college bound at the end of the summer. M. was more experienced than I was. In all the ways that a person can be experienced. He carried with him enough dysfunction to make him completely desirable. In a true teenage fashion, I flung every fiber of my being into a relationship built on false ideas of love and hostility.
In the beginning I loved everything about him. I loved his friends, I loved his grimy apartment and the shitty artwork on his walls. I loved the way that he drank his beer and his charm. We spent most of the days of my last childhood summer together. I remember very clearly staring into his eyes while discussing our mutual love for sweet teas and being so full of feelings that I thought I might explode. Wanting to be loved. To be acknowledged as a unique individual by someone other than your parents. That’s what love was to me then. That is a terrible amount of power to give someone who can’t have a real conversation with either of his parents.
I was painfully unaware of who I was and what a bright light I was carrying around inside of me. But, he knew. He was one of those that could take your light from you, if you let him. The kind your mama warns you about. He was covered in gloss, dipped in charm, and dressed in deception.
His presence is woven throughout my college years like a dark thread. He remains in my memory now like an old film photograph. Yellowing at the edges and full of grim-faced realities.
- In my second year of college, while attending the wedding of one of my sorority sisters, I met an army man. B. was gentlemanly in the ways that soldiers are. He resided in New York and would be deploying for Afghanistan soon. At 19 years old, this seemed like the perfect opportunity for love. All of the warning signs that logic sent me were woefully ignored. I fell head over heels with a man who would weeks later be in the middle of a combat zone. I was looking for a serious man to raise me and he was looking for a carefree young lady who’s stories would distract him and who’s correspondence would liven his spirits. My inability to focus on anything, let alone a long-distance relationship based off bi-weekly audio-only Skype sessions, brought a swift end to the relationship. Small piece of advice: if you are a pacifist, a relationship with an American solider is not the best idea. Probably. Fortunately my short attention span guarded my heart well, and my feelings of love passed as quickly as they came.
- I met C. in the spring of that year. He was from my hometown, but we had never met. Mutual friends and an invitation to a house party were all that it took. He is still one of the strangest men I’ve ever known. It was one of the things I loved the most about him. I never knew how he felt about anything, and at the time, this seemed like a really mysterious and exciting thing (though I can now recognize that as a crippling dysfunction). I remember it feeling like a game, like I was playing detective and my reward would be a genuine feeling statement. I remember being very concerned with what he thought about me and feeling very uncomfortable in my own skin. I remember pouring over our text and email conversations trying to glean any sort of discernible opinion from his vague and cryptic responses. It was falling in love with him that taught me the importance of knowing yourself before you can love another. In this way, I am eternally grateful to him. It was loving and losing him that prepared me to love Ben.
- I fell in love with Ben the moment I saw him. Then I fell in love with him again the first time we spoke. And again the first time I heard him sing. And when we cooked Brussel sprouts together. And again when he met my mother. And again when I met his mother. We grew up together. He knows parts of me that no one else will ever know. Loving him has formed who I am and we have grown around each other like a pair of gnarled roots. It is with him that I realized the power of vulnerability and the importance of taking care with your partner’s heart.
It’s bedtime, one of us announces, though I can’t be sure of which one of us it was. You rise first, giving me a hand up off the couch. After she refuses to come to our calls, one of us drags our beast off the couch and shoos her towards the bed.
Lights off. Door locked. Bathroom. Teeth brushed. Phones collected. Alarms set.
What time do you work tomorrow? Dinner afterwards? We’ll make soup, but probably go out instead. We pile in first, situating the covers into a perfectly 60-40 position. Up, we tell the dog. She leaps, and wiggles her way in between us, resting her head on a chest or a pillow. Cuddle, cuddle, cuddle. Remark on our luck.
Are you ready? Lights out. Go on, dog. She retreats to her position at our feet. A quick kiss. Flip to our sides, pressing our backs together for our own brand of cuddles. Make a diamond shaped hole for our beast, cradling her with calves and the back of our thighs.
I’m not tired at all, I mutter. I glance at the clock. Minutes later I am sound asleep, dreaming of him, and of her, and of our simple luck.
Last week my mister and I had the pleasure of buying an electric guitar for his musical pursuits. On our way out of the store, I remember remarking that it was so strange being able to spend that much money at once, and still be okay.
Later that evening, mid-saute, I had an overwhelming feeling of adult-ness. I don’t really know where it came from, as that evening was no different than most of our evenings together. He was in the dining room, fiddling around with his new friend. Our dogbeast was laying under my feet, patiently awaiting a chunk of sweet potato or squash.
Sometimes this whole thing seems like too much to deal with. All of the laundry left to be folded, the dust collecting around my books, the 37 house plants that never seem to have been watered, the container of leftovers that goes bad before I can eat them, and the conversations ruined by our miscommunications. Failure, failure, failure, tucked in all of our corners.
But. But! A gentle reminder from him that I criticize myself too freely brings reality back into focus. We are managing. We are flourishing. The things we have to be proud of far outweigh the things we have to be discouraged by. All the bills are paid. Progress. Exciting job news for both of us. Progress. Less produce wasted this week. Progress. Progress. We are moving forward, self, we are moving forward.
.Less criticizing. More self-love and appreciation.
The Devil in the White City | Erik Larson
A work of non-fiction describing the construction of the 1893 World’s Fair and a serial killer who used the fair as a hunting ground.