So, I got home from work tonight, and guess what I did?

Yep.

I polished my resume & CV.

Fuck it. Yeah, I like the people I work with, but not the guy I work for. The asshole had the audacity to give me a 4% raise. That's right. 4-fucking-%!!! I do more than two jobs, and I do them well. I had to take a god-damned 12 page essay test about company policy, which you know I fucking aced because I may not be a good little corporate bunny, but I know my shit.

I cannot believe my manager had the balls (even though she's a woman) to sit there and tell me that even though I clearly know what I'm talking about when I answer questions, and that my confidence in my knowledge base is a good thing in her opinion, I should try not to come off like a "know-it-all." I cannot help it if my boss doesn't know jack shit and couldn't answer half the questions I get on a daily basis, thereby making him feel like a prick when I do know the answer.

Yeah, I can be a bit of a smart ass, I'll admit it. It's a character flaw I'm well aware of. 

But this does not change the fact that I am worth A LOT more than I get paid working there. I was waiting to see if they would recognize just how valuable I am, and pay me accordingly. Stupidly, I now realize. Dare I say it, naively? Lazily? Lack-a-daisically? Hopefully? Wistfully? 

If wishes were horses, I'd be in deep shit. Oh wait, I am in deep shit! Guess we know what that means! Better watch out the next time you're looking into the night sky and waiting for that first star to appear... you never know what might hit you in the eye.

Grrrrr....

Jinx  

Do I really want to write today?

The weird feeling in my gut says there's definitely something my head wants to get out. And there are about a million little random thoughts swirling around in there, each one insisting that it's their turn to be heard. My problem, I guess, is that I'm having trouble picking the ones I want to give credence to.

Words have power. I know this. It's why I love to read so much. It's why I'm not much of a talker, either. Say something aloud, and the universe might take it and use it against you. Or, just as likely, for you. It's sort of an equal opportunity, quantum leap, kind of thing.

Am I being too careful? Should I kick my superstitions to the curb and say whatever I want, regardless of any potential cosmic consequences?

Stream of consciousness. It's worked before, when a thought just won't gel properly.

I went for a walk, yesterday and today. The weather is just about perfect for it. Long, long rambles through my green, lush neighborhood with all it's beautiful old houses and brownstone apartments and weird people and bunny rabbits and friendly cats. I'm always walking alone, and sometimes I'm brave and turn down streets toward people, and sometimes my head is so ugly I purposely turn away so I don't have to walk past anybody.

Every time I start a walk, I'm always thinking about the same thing. I may not finish te walk thinking the same thing, but at the start, it's always the same.

Heroes. Within the space of a block or two, I swing wildly from wishing I was the type of woman who attracts strong, alpha males with the strength to stand beside me, to knowing that until I am strong enough to be my own hero, I will never be that woman.

See what I mean? Words like that, vicious circles of despair and hope, dream and reality, are virtually guaranteed to cancel eachother out in the universal scheme of things.

I am so godamned tired of being lonely. I don't mind being alone. I can always amuse myself. But it would be nice to have someone to count on, to laugh with, share with, be needed by. And yeah, that's what my heart wanted me to say today.

Short, sweet, and right to the bitter point of life. Connect, or perish.

But that also explains why I was so hesitant to write it down. Admissions like that are painful, even if brutally honest and nearly anonymous. Also, ridiculously trite. After all, who doesn't want that kind of relationship in their life?

Still, apparently it had to be said.

Jinx 

I officially have a new sister. !!!

In-Law, that is.

But it's all good, because I like her a lot. She's always laughing, and she loves my brother, and my neices like her, which is good because now she's their step mother.

It was a lovely day for an outdoor ceremony, thankfully, which was held on board the only working Paddle Boat on Lake Pepin, The Pearl of the Lake.

But the wedding isn't really what I want to talk about today. Nope.

I went down to Rochester a day early to drop of my dying car and pick up the new one, but also to spend part of the day with my brother Mike, who I only get to see a couple times a year. He lives in Kalamazoo, Michigan right now. Not an easy distance, so its special when he does get to come for a visit.

Growing up, I was always closer to Mike than the other two boys. Mostly because we were the closest in age and spent most of our school years one grade apart. He's funny and smart, and fairly easy to talk to. Or, he used to be.

Now, I spend most of my time around him feeling judged or lacking in some way. Which pisses me off. He has this way of saying crap that sounds like good advice, but is really designed to make me feel stupid. So fucking passive-aggressive of him.

Somehow, we got on the topic of what he should get the girls for their bithday presents. Which is a reasonable request. What 30-year-old doctor really has any clue what to get a teenage girl, that she'd actually like? I told him I-Tunes gift cards, or perhaps gift cards for a cool clothing store, so they can pick out what they want themselves.

I couldn't give him a specific store to choose from, because I really don't know what stores teenagers shop at these days, myself. I laughed, and said even when I was a 17-year-old, I didn't shop at the cool stores, either. Most of my wardrobe came from thrift stores and garage sales. That was just fine with me, most of the time. I've never needed fancy things to be happy, unlike my youngest brother who has to have the best of everything. We call him the Yuppy for a reason. But the fact remained that my wardrobe definitely lacked a cetain panache that seemed to come easily to others.   

And Mike has the audacity to say, "You know it didn't have to be that way, right?"

How can I explain what he meant?

He was telling me that if I had been a different person, if I had gone out and gotten an after-school job to earn my own money, if I'd known then what I know now as a 32-year-old woman, I could have had the fanciest wardrobe on the planet.

He said it like I don't have the right to remember what life was like in that house when I was in high school. As if I should rewrite history to suit the way things are today.

The truth is, I don't really remember much about my childhood. I left it behind. I had to walk away, and literally put it all behind me.

But I do remember a few things. Like how much energy my brothers expended keeping my parent's attention. They didn't do it on purpose, like a conscious decision to keep me away from them. Of course they didn't. They were just kids, too, after all, and had every right to expect their parents to be there for them. But there was rarely anything left for me, emotionally. And while this wound isn't really about clothes, at all, being boys, they didn't really have to pay attention to fashion standards. Though I know Kip did, and to give him credit, he did earn his own money and pay for most of his own clothes. 

As for me, I was quiet. I didn't make waves, tried to be good so no one would get mad at me. I was almost painfully shy, most of the time. I probably had a huge sign over my head that said Keep Away! I was the walking wounded, after all. On rare occasions, I shocked myself by doing something outrageous. Like asking a strange foreign kid to go to the movies with me... But mostly, I was the invisible girl, even at home. And who would spend good money on clothes for a girl who never went anywhere? Heck, by senior year, I was making most of my own clothes. By choice. Yeah, how cool was that? I suspect that if I had ever been asked to a dance of any kind, I would have been taken to every thrift store in town looking for a dress, because who pays full price for something you're going to wear once?     

So for Mike to tell me that it didn't have to be that way...

Either he's right, and I just haven't been able to see the truth. Or he's an asshole who grew up in a completely different family than I did.

I know he did. But I'll never be able to explain the difference to him. He just wouldn't understand.

So, even today, family gatherings are hard for me. No matter what I do, it's never as cool as what my brothers are doing. Better to just keep quiet, listen, watch, blend into the background, and don't talk about the past, because it hurts too much to be told that it didn't have to be that way.

Jinx

Hey Kids!

My friend Sandy and I went to the Science Museum of MN today to see the Star Wars: Science Behind the Magic exhibit. It was pretty cool, I must admit. I was this close to Han Solo's costume!!! Was it wrong to check and see if you can tell which way he likes to hang the boys?

I had the worst crush on Harrison Ford when I was in high school. Now, he's sexy in the way Sean Connery is sexy. In that "mature, confident in his own skin, devil-may-care kind of man's man" way that will have women dropping in their paths from instant (multiple) orgasms until the day they die.

Anyway, Han Solo has always been one of my favorite bad boy fantasies. I believe he may have been one of the main reasons for my never-ending fascination with Star Wars. Without a character like him in it, the movies just wouldn't have had the same ooomph, you know?

I won't say it was a perfect exhibit. I would have done several things differently. But then, I have a trained designer's eye, and am therefore not really a "civilian." That said, it was set up to work best for the short attention span of their target audience of 12 to 18 year old boys. Quick snippets, and sometimes longer videos, of information about models and costumes and worlds and robots and future technologies all relating to the Star Wars universe and it's impact on the real world.

I always find it amazing how the camera can fool us into believing we see one thing, when really it's something completely different. There are millions of hidden details, secrets, in every frame of a really good blockbuster epic. But it's only with Star Wars that I find enjoyment in knowing all the little oddities. Most DVDs today come with behind the scenes footage and documentaries giving away all the secrets, but I never watch them if I can help it. I just don't want to know. I like movie magic, I like that they can create a whole, completely believable world, and it makes me sad when someone pulls away that curtain and takes away my ability to live in that world with the characters.

But Star Wars I love. From the story to the characters to the movie history it made.

So, I bought a coffee mug with an original poster of SW: A New Hope on it. I wanted to get a mug for all three original movies, but they cost too much. I've decided to start collecting coffee mugs, and get rid of the ones I have. They don't hold enough, and they're boring. This way, I'll have a different mug for all my different moods. It pleases me that the first in my collection is Star Wars.

Jinx   

WTF, as they say.

To all and sundry, please disregard the last blog (in part, anyway). I am soon to be the proud owner of a practically new 1997 Ford Escort, in a light metallic green, that my dad has apparently owned for the last year. This one I get to pay $3,000 for. Phew!!!

I didn't know he owned a '97 Escort, in any color. It seems my mother, who probably heard the panic lacing my voice when I told them to buy the Focus, talked my dad into selling me his little treasure. He uses it to get around town, rather than his big truck. Saves on gas milage. It was previously owned by an old man who had to go into a nursing home, and won't be needing a car of any kind. Sad, but it means I'm getting an eleven year old car that's almost brand new. It only has 23,000 miles on it. That averages to just over 2,000 miles a year. Which is practically like having it parked for a decade. Sweet! 

No, I don't really have $3,000 just lying around, but I am waaaaaayyyyy more comfortable with that number. So, cosmically speaking, I am now $8,000 to the good. Heartbeat normal, blood pressure even, sound sleep guaranteed.

I feel so much better now.

Jinx 

I am now the (terrified) proud owner of a 2007 Ford Focus.

$11,300

I can no longer afford my life. I'm going to have to trade it in for something less expensive. Like death. Death is cheap. They must have reasonably priced condos in the afterlife, right? And with the wings, transportation is pretty much free, yes?

Just kidding.

Maybe.

I'm tired of living paycheck to paycheck. The whole point to getting a degree in design was a bigger paycheck while doing something I enjoyed, but I just keep getting deeper into debt with no way out.

Fuck!

I didn't want to buy a new car. I really, really didn't want to pay $11,300 for it.

I really don't want to have to get either a new, or a second, job. But I really, really can't afford not to, anymore. Really, really, really...

So, at a crossroads with no clearly marked path, no good choices, what would you do?

Apparently, my new car is a pretty, shiny reddish maroon color that still has 5 years and 50,000 miles still left on its warranty, and only 11,000 miles on the engine. The current owner is willing to knock a couple hundred off the price if I'm willing to let him keep it for another week, until he moves.

Why do I say apparently? Because I let my parents pick it out. They called me while I was at work tonight to say they were going to look at a Ford Focus that was $1,000 less than they'd seen them for on dealer lots.

Imagine a skyscraper. Imagine standing right at the base, and looking up, up, up its side until you can just see the top. Leaning so far back your neck starts to ache, just so you can see the sky. Now tell me if you'd notice if a hundred story building was shorter by a story or two. What difference does $1,000 make when subtracted from $50,000?

I need a hug. My mother suggested I get a drink, and I must be in shock, because the very large Jim & Tommy I just had has only managed to make my cheeks pink. Not pleasantly fuzzy, like it usually does. Just a little warm.

But that might be the temperature. It's a little warm in here, and I forgot to turn on the fan before I sat down.

I keep telling myself I should think positive, believe that good things are on the way, that everything will work out fine. That I should set up my altar and start praying in earnest. To whomever is listening. To visualize my bank account swelling and interesting people coming into my life. And normally I am fairly optimistic, really I am. It's just that, I don't need to write about the good stuff, as much as the crap that happens, so you all get the cosmic junk I need to unload, and don't hear so much about the happy things.

I guess the truth is, ugliness happens, and I know it. I know it's unavoidable, that bad things happen to good people, regardless of how happy they seem to be, or how optimistic they are. I also know that things could be infinitely worse. I could live in Baghdad, and be terrified every single day of car bombs and being executed by the militia. This mentality is so Midwestern of me. As they say, my roots are showing.  

But I don't live in Iraq, or North Korea, or the Congo. I live in America, land of the free and home of the brave. I have a family, who while they don't really understand me all that well, love me enough to help me buy a new car, one way better than I could ever hope to afford on my own.

I know I'm blessed, and that most of my problems are of my own making. I know that I have the power to change the outcome.

I just have to buckle down and do it.

Jinx 

All day I've been thinking about writing, but after a first failed attempt this morning, when my mouse mysteriously jumped to the "Back" button when that wasn't what I intended at all, I gave it up as a bad job. But here I am, beginning again.

I guess there must be something my subconscious really wants me to say.

This morning I started by asking the question:

Why do I want a Jaguar so badly?

I've spent the past week so stressed out about my car, and wondering if I should or would have to find a new car, or buy a used car, or lease a car, or just scrap it all and take the bus, should I sell the car I have, or donate it for the tax write-off, and on and on, twisting in knots. And all the random advice, some asked for, some not, that is so very often conflicting. It all makes me feel like I'm out of my depth. I have no ingrained information to attach all these suggestions to, and know so little about cars and buying and financing them that I don't even know for sure what questions to ask, and what the right answer should be if I did know.

On the one hand, my boss thinks I should lease a car. And I have a friend who swears by leasing, since she likes to get a new car every couple years, anyway. My dad, on the other hand, says leasing is a bad idea. Because you just pay and pay and don't end up with anything for your money in the end. He's very big on ownership.

Everyone and their uncle has given me a suggestion on what's wrong with my car, how to fix it, who to take it to for a second opinion, even though I've already spent another $200 just getting the diagnostic and the damn warning lights haven't gone off. William (my car) is going to die, in the near future, and I don't want to be stuck on the side of the highway when it happens. I'd much rather have the choice already made, and the car safely in someone else's hands.

Which brings me to my original question. I have always, always wanted to have a Jaguar. I love their sleek, curvy, muscular lines. They look so much like their namesakes, as if they could shapeshift into a big cat with just a thought. I found one on craigslist today, while I was looking for a used car in my price range (as if I actually have one). Until that moment, I hadn't even considered looking for a Jag as my next car. I'd been so worried about having to find one in the first place, that I'd forgotten to do a little dreaming.

But this dream is in direct conflict with my pragmatic nature. Jaguars have notoriously bad repair and maintenance records, and I can just hear the disgusted groans from my father and brothers. "Why'd you go and get a Jag?" Blah, blah, blah. Still, I know they're at least partially right, even if their voices are only in my head. The last thing I want is to end up with a car that, while aesthetically satisfying, is essentially a money pit. Unreliable. Pretty, with no substance.

But I do so want that car. I am soooooo tempted to call the owner up and buy it, sight undriven. Not that I could take it for a test drive. It's a manual transmission, and I don't know how to drive a stick shift. Not that I couldn't learn, of course. My older brother won't drive anything but a manual, and he'd be more than happy to yell at me while I learn. Once a marine, always a marine, and he channels his drill sergeant really well. I've always been reluctant to learn how to drive a stick shift. I like the ease of driving an automatic. I don't have to worry about burning out the clutch, or wondering what gear I should be in, and I can keep my hands mostly free. But for a Jag, I think I might learn.

My father is leaning towards a Ford Focus, new, direct from the dealer's lot. With a warranty and all. But just the thought of adding another $12,000 to $17,000 to the debt I already owe to various organizations makes my stomach hurt. Much better to get a used car, and not have to pay for the depreciation of just driving it off the lot.

I guess what I want is to just once make a choice based entirely on my own personal desires, and have it also be a good decision that won't came back to bite me on the ass. I want to be excited about the car I choose. I want this car to make a statement, be an expression of who I am. I want the pleasure of choosing not to be overshadowed by the fact that I just can't afford it, anyway.  

To this point, every car I've ever owned has been a hand-me-down.

First was Bessie, my parent's Caprice Classic Station Wagon. She was huge, a boat, able to haul 8 to 11 people. I took her with me to college. Had her probably 2 years. 

Then there was my Escort, Lily. I never even got the chance to drive her, since she got totaled in an accident. My father was driving her to school to pick up my younger brother, and got schmucked coming out of the parking lot by the wife of the teacher who ran the planetarium.

Then, there was Basil, the Dim-Wit King. A dark purple-ish/brown-ish 92' Ford Taurus that my father found after he killed Lily. I had him for several years, as well. I called him the Dim-Wit King, one to remind me of his license plate letters, and two, because like the car I have now, I kept having to take him in for repairs every six months or so.

And now there's William, or rather, Will Scarlet, my red 96' Ford Taurus. He was my mother's car, until they bought a new one a few years ago. He came to me already named Scarlet, because my mother's favorite color is red. But I knew he was a boy, whatever she thought, and since I couldn't just rename him, I gave him a new identity as one of Robin Hoods merry men. Or his younger brother, if you believe a certain movie. And now he's dying, slowly giving up the ghost, as it were.

So now I am in the unfamiliar position of being able to choose my own car, rather than just take what my parents pick for me. I could get whatever I want. I never minded letting them pick out my cars for me, don't get me wrong. As I said, this is terrifyingly unfamiliar territory, choosing a vehicle, and if my dad says a car is a good bet, I tend to believe him. But this time, I can get what I want. And in 30 years, when people talk about their first cars, I could say the first car I ever chose for myself was a...

All day long, I've been in this quandary. I know if I don't act quickly, the car I've got my eye on will disappear. That is the nature of the used car business. And the one I found is a beauty...

But I just don't know if it would be a good idea. What kind of gas mileage does a Jag get? What are the odds that I'll have to start shelling out more money for repairs in the near future? But what about the regret of a lost opportunity. Will I regret more not taking this chance?

I just don't know.

New car, old car, Jag or Ford or Honda or Camaro or Mustang...

Whatever way you slice it, I'm in a pretty pickle.

Jinx 

In the past week I:

Had dinner with some mobsters from Miami on Sunday night, after spending an afternoon with my mother wandering around my neighborhood. (This is the first time she's been to my place for any length of time since I moved in a year and a half ago, even though I've invited her a few times). We visited this really cool antique store on Lyndale Avenue, right next to The Wedge Co-op. But you probably want to hear about the first part of this little blurb, right? I swear, they're transplants to Miami by way of New York. The mobsters are now in-laws of my youngest brother, who got married last summer. They are swimming in money, and like to throw it around like it's confetti, all the while complaining about the bill, just so everyone knows who paid it. And just so you all know, too, my dinner was paid for by an 83 year old guy named Melvin, whose fifth wife Sylvia was sitting on his left, right next to the first husband (Woody-79) of Melvin's second wife (Bertha the Bitch), who was not present, but still managed to gain said title. I was sitting between Dave (K's father-in-law) and Gloria (grandmother-in-law). This family is crazy, and the weirdest stuff seems to happen to them. For instance, Dave told me all about the train set he had in his basement that apparently came from the collection of Gary Coleman of Different Strokes fame. I'm telling you, it was like being in an episode of The Sopranos, only with Jewish gangsters instead of Italians. Ironically, we were having dinner in an Italian restaurant. Ciao Bella. By the time we left, we all smelled strongly of garlic and were groaning about our pants being too tight. I haven't laughed that hard in a long time. I even got quizzed on my sex life by several octegenarians. They asked me if my mother had ever had The Talk with me, you know, about The Birds and The Bees. I said no, she gave me a library card instead. They thought that was a riot. Is it funnier that it's the truth? So that took care of Sunday. 

Got many (mostly unhelpful) bits of advice from my family about my car situation. Since I know almost nothing about how a car actually works, and what sounds or noises would constitute a mechanical emergency, I couldn't tell them what was wrong. Other than the many and varied blinking lights that have been keeping me company the past week. My brother recommended that I take my car to the mechanic his in-laws use. This may actually be helpful, since I have no way of knowing who's a good mechanic and who's just going to rip me off just because I'm a girl. I'm going to assume these guys know what they're doing, and hope for the best. Right now, I have my very first rental car, ever. A grey Chevy Malibu. I don't like it much. It kind of smells like it's been near a farm, though I can't imagine why that would be. And all the stuff that makes it work is in weird spots that I have to waste time looking for. Still, even though I can't really afford a car payment, I'm sort of hoping they come back with a list of things wrong with my William that's so long I have to get a new car. I have no idea what I'd get, instead. Something with much better gas mileage, more energy efficient. What'd be really nice, would be to not need a car at all. No insurance, no gas, no mechanics. I could save a fortune if I didn't have to have a car. I imagine I could get by without one, if I really, truly had to. I should take the bus to work someday, just to see how long it actually takes to get from here to there. I'll bet its an hour or more. In my car, it takes 15 minutes.   

Got a wicked cool gift from some truly good friends. Warm fuzzies in the midst of cold heeby-jeebies. A silver lining so bright it should actually be called a platinum lining. A diamond lining, even. Something a lot more valuable than plain old silver, anyway.

Went to the library and got another couple (dozen) books. I am so greedy. I cannot resist the lure of all those words... stories.... lovely, lovely stories.

I did the dishes, and now I'm planning on finishing my brother's wedding present while watching a movie or two. I haven't decided what I want to watch, yet. Maybe BBC's Pride & Prejudice. I love, love, love that movie. Even if it is 6 hours long. You just cannot beat Colin Firth in a wet, white shirt with that adorably stunned expession on his face when he sees the object of his desire (namely, the opinionated Lizzie Bennet) casually strolling about his lawn. Soooooooooooo sexy. But I haven't decided if that's what I want to see, or not.

The Summer Solstice is this weekend. Midsummer's Eve. The longest day of the year, here in the northern hemisphere. And the shortest day in the southern. So many of our religious holidays, from whatever religion, are intimately tied to where the sun is at any given time of the year. Christmas was deliberately placed near the Winter Solstice to coincide with the pagan festivals of light, which celebrate the return of he sun after the long dark. Even though it's supposedly the celebration of the birth of Christ, who scholars believe was actually born sometime in late March. I'm not an anthropologist, so I don't know much about most of the other cultures on the planet, but I do know that what we believe is true here in MN would be ludicrous in a jungle village in South America. And Australia. Would they have such an odd sense of national identity if they hadn't had most of their cultural identity exported from Great Britain, only to clash with having the world be backwards from what they were used to? For instance, if Western religion (with all its European pagan origins and Middle Eastern mythology) had developed in Australia first, would Christmas still be in December, or would it now be in the heart of June? Just things I sometimes wonder about.

Well, that's really all I've got for today.

Jinx

It's 4 pm on Friday afternoon, and I've already had a hell of a day.

My friend Claudia at work likes to say she doesn't have bad days, just bad minutes. I like this attitude, and I'm working hard today to make it true for me.

Last night, after I got off work, I went to get gas. $50 later (man, I HATE that!!), I sped down the highway toward home intending to hit the grocery store on the way. Not five minutes later, the O/D light starts blinking at me from my dashboard. I have never seen this light before, because it doesn't ever light up. I'm thinking, Crap! What the fuck does this mean? and Will it be expensive $$$$$? Optimistically, I swing into the grocery store parking lot, hoping that when I come back out with a load of persihable items that my car will even start.

Just to tease me, the car starts just fine, and the O/D (Overdrive) light does not immediately come back on. Sometimes it happens like that, you know? So, I get back on the highway to head home. Halfway there, the O/D light comes back on, flashing a merry Christmas green, followed scarily by the caution orange Check Engine light. Grrrrrr.....

Today is my day off, since I switched schedules this week with one of the other girls, so I got up, took a shower, and drove my car to the shop. Dropped it off, and walked home, because it is a beautiful day. Sunny, breezy, and in full bloom. I used the time to hope fervently that the fix-it guy would call and say it was nothing major.

No such luck, my friends. $1200. One. Thousand. Two. Hundred. Dollars. Before tax.

And that's not even everything that's wrong with it!! The fix-it guy mumbled something about transmission leaks, and that they don't really work on that kind of thing there. But he'd be happy to fix my broken rear strut (which I think mostly holds up the back end of the car)!!!

I really hate cars. I hate having to fix them, or not fix them, depending. How do I know what's worth fixing and what isn't? I have to have a car. Where I live and work, its not really negotiable.

I expect the phone to ring anytime now, letting me know I can go pick the damn thing up and leave behind one of my most useful bodyparts in exchange.

See? Trying really hard to have only bad minutes today, not one whole lousy day.

I hope you know this means I'm going to have to put off my goal of visitng the Y by Saturday. No way can I afford the monthly dues there now. Not for awhile, anyway.

No, instead I'm probably going to have to get a second job. I need to get these damn credit cards paid off. They're stressing me out. Usually I'm pretty blase' about money, probably too casual really, but it's starting to get to me. I think I'll look for something in my neighborhood, that I can walk to easily. That way I don't waste more gas getting there.

I did spend a couple hours this afternoon making smoothies from all the luscious fruit and veggies I got at the grocery store yesterday. I put on my Footloose movie soundtrack record and pretended I was an aspiring chef on Hell's Kitchen, wielding my pretty red KitchenAid knives like a pro. I made a hell of a mess, but I've got enough to last me at least a week. So that was good. Positive. Optimistic, even.

Anyone got any winning lottery tickets they're not going to cash in? It would go a long way toward easing this awful knot I've got in my stomach. If I'm not careful, I'll give myself an ulcer. Or maybe I should just become a woman of action and do something about it.

I have this silk-screened tea towel in my bathroom that I got when I was in Florida last year. It has this blonde bombshell Pin-Up girl from the 40s, wearing a very tiny version of a sailor suit and hat and red peek-a-boo high heels that I've named Veronica. The caption below her says "Put on your big girl panties and deal with it!" I liked her immediately. Every day she reminds me of the type of woman I really want to be. Veronica would definitely know what to do in a situation like this one. She would have known whether or not she should have the car fixed, or scrap it and get a new one with the money she would have spent fixing this one. Better yet, she would have had a guy she could call who would have fixed it for her, if not free of charge, at least at a really big discount. So, I'm still learning how to tap into my inner Veronica.

Damn it. I knew I should have said, "let me call you back" when the fix-it guy gave me the price.

Suckered every time...

Jinx 

How do you know when enough's enough?

Hillary Clinton has come to the end of her run, and will concede the race this Saturday. I didn't know until her loss was definite that she was really the one I was rooting for. The pundits all say that Obama has a 60/40 shot at being the next president, provided he can keep his head above water for the next 5 months. I like Obama. I'm not unhappy with him as the candidate. I just think Hillary could do the job better. We'll just have to wait and see if he does the smart thing and taps her as his VP. With both of them on the ticket, their chances of beating McCain go up exponentially. 

The way our political system runs, either candidate could have bowed out at any time over the last 5 months. The Republican party certainly lost its share, with McCain emerging early as their front runner. All of them had to, at some point, say to themselves and their supporters, "Enough is enough." Call it a day. Move on.

I was listening to NPR (as I do every day), listening to post primary election coverage on Wednesday morning. One of the women guests, I forget her name, said in response to the question of why Hillary didn't concede right away on Wednesday after the polls closed that the grieving process hadn't ended yet. 

I guess that makes perfect sense. She and her staff and legions of enthusiastic voters had to give up the dream of finally having a woman in the White House, as more than the decorative party planner. That hard a battle needs just as careful planning to end it gracefully as it did to wage each skirmish. No one can begrudge her a few days to mourn the loss of that war. Of course, she can always run again in three years.

This does not change the fact that once again there will be a man running the country. It doesn't surprise me that Americans would swing that way. The attitude seems to be that if a minority must be ensconced in the Oval Office, then its better that we start off with a man, and that he be at least partially white. Take it slow. Change is hard.

All this political drama does nothing more than highlight the inadequacies that plague my own life. It's only natural that it should, because as everyone who reads my blog knows, the world revolves around me.

I have never been that strong. Always content to let the world come to me. Sail past. Fly over. Speed by. But always from a safe distance. I can't even imagine what the world would look like from the inside. I know that this insulated bubble I live in is pretty fragile, and someday, sooner or later, something or someone will pop it like a shiny, iridescent sphere of soap.

I walked south a few blocks the other day, a sort of advance scouting mission to familiarize myself with the location of the nearest YMCA. It was hot and sticky outside, and the building is Under Construction, though still open to the public. I walked all the way around, trying to imagine myself walking through the doors, on a regular basis. I can almost see it happen.

Of course, the three big black guys standing around talking in front of the doors, sort of blocking the entrance like having to walk a gauntlet, was a little intimidating.

Courage, my girl. This is supposed to be an exercise in building reasons for going, not trying to talk yourself out of it. 

What I should do is set a goal, a date, by which I must have at least gone for a visit to see the inside of the building. Who knows? Maybe I won't like the inside? So, if that's what I should do, then that's what I'll do. Today is the 6th. No later that June 14th (next Saturday), I will have gone inside for a tour. 

Deep breath. This isn't the first time I've joined a Y. I was a member of one several years ago, and all with the same good intentions. But I did solitary things. This time, I intend to take advantage of the free member classes, and do things as part of a group. I've always been an exceptional student, after all. Maybe with a structured schedule, I'll be able to get something done. 

Wish me luck...

Jinx