Talking About Thinking About Doing Stuff

I am currently sitting here, stretching, watching the Olympics, and actively avoiding doing several somethings I should have done a week ago. I don’t know what triggers it or why I get this way, but it’s like I suddenly become allergic to whatever task I need to do, especially if it’s tardy. I can’t look at it, I can’t think about it, I certainly can’t just sit down and do it.

Ok actually I know exactly what triggers it. Whenever something is late, my brain HATES it. It’s a shameguiltspiral that I just don’t want to deal with. Which is weird because I mean, I’m late A LOT. This lateness is usually reserved for my personal life (late 90% of the time, every time) but every once and again I wait too long on a project or a promise and the due date I’ve set for myself comes and goes, and suddenly that task, no matter how small, is simply untouchable.

This is pretty much exactly what happened last week. After my eight months of insanity, I was just. So. Tired. I deserved a break! Just a couple days where I could come home after work and NOT USE MY BRAIN. Oh and how lovely that was. But then a couple days turned into two weeks and suddenly I hadn’t finished all the stuff I was supposed to two weeks ago and it was JUST TOO LATE.

I don’t know. I always get to the point where I realize I’m being ridiculous and I just sit down and do the damn 5-10 minute task, but tonight is just not that night. Maybe tomorrow morning.

Yeah, tomorrow morning sounds good. I’ll probably be a much more motivated, accomplished professional by then.

Well Hello, Story of My Life

My b, y’all.

Always a Draft, Never a Published

Remember that time when I was supposed to be writing about my freelancing and then I got an insane job through my freelancing and never blogged again? Yeah, I know. To my credit, I have a handful of draft posts that I started but never published because I’m great at starting things but terrible at ending them.

That said, I’m still not going to tell you about my kickass crazy life because I’m currently in Georgia to see one of my oldest and dearest get herself hitched. Just wanted to let you know I’m still alive and I love you. 🙂

Oh, also, Mr. B and I both survived food poisoning. Our trashcan in the 2nd bathroom, however, did not.

A Thing That I’ve Been Thinking Today

I think it’s important to note that I am incredibly fortunate. I know I am fortunate because I am surrounded by people who love, support, and encourage me to pursue my craft with the knowledge that if I fall, one or all of those people will catch me.

I was reminded of this today, when I got a terrible surprise at the bank, in the form of 90 more dollars than I possessed having been sent to Sallie Mae without my knowledge. It’s been that kind of month for me; unexpected expenses in sets of one and two hundred dollars each, with almost no new income for the duration of the month. A forgotten parking ticket, a phone that needed replacing, paying for this semester out of pocket, and so on and so forth, so it goes.

It’s not anything sob-worthy, most of it is my fault: oversight and such. But I’m remembering the days from the first time around, when my roommate would come home from her work at a crisis center with stories of people exactly like me, in exactly the same position, but minus the loved ones willing or able to provide a safety net.

This feels a bit like one of those 99% posts, and maybe it is a little. I just feel incredibly lucky to have the friends, family, boyfriend, and employers that I have, and today especially my heart breaks for people who don’t have that, for whatever reason that they don’t, and I take no issue with giving away some of my income to provide them a semblance of the safety net that I was blessed with, but did not earn and doubtfully deserve.

These Are My Confessions

Here is something true about me: I hate to clean.

Scratch that, reword it. Scrubbing, sweeping, mopping, vacuuming, with all that I am fine. I hate to tidy. As much as I mind filth and smelliness, I could happily step over clutter piles for the rest of my life and never know I was living any differently or worse off than anyone else.

As it happens, the boyfriend, who will henceforth be called Mr. B because I’m tired of writing out the boyfriend, has been trapped in the house with me for several days due to an ingrown toenail*. And here’s the thing. If it was up to him, Mr. B would live a spartan existence: bed, computer, couch, tv (with gaming system.) No tables, no chairs, no shelves, NO CLUTTER. It is a true testament of his love for me that we have been together as long as we have, and I have never come home to a gutted house with all my (thousands of) belongings on the front lawn, Clean House style. That may or may not have something to do with the fact that we have never had a front lawn on which to toss belongings (and he does not know who Niecy Nash is), but that’s neither here nor there.

What is here AND there is the fact that I am now home for many, many more hours of the day. And I am considerably more broke. And when cheerleading and encouraging me to quit my crappy day job once and for all, Mr. B said the immortal words, “…and at this point I would honestly rather have a clean house than more money toward the mortgage every month.” And I agreed because let’s be honest, at this moment in my development the poor guy can’t have both.

So I agreed to be a house[domestic partner], and, this past week or so, I have not been holding up my end of the deal. It’s not a feminist issue, it’s a partnership issue. I know I don’t pull my weight. But here’s the other thing.

I don’t know what happens to me when I’m asked to clean up**. Suddenly this strong, ambitious woman is reduced to a whining, blubbering mess of vinegar and tantrum. I am known to actually throw myself on the bed or floor in a fit of drama when asked to pick up the scrapbooking materials I cleverly(?) hid under the coffee table. I know it’s awful, and ugly, and very very trying, but this is confessional time. If left to my own devices I will eventually clean up my clutter (because even I have a limit.) But if I’m (very nicely) asked to do it before I have deemed myself emotionally ready, I’m suddenly a five-year old who DOES NOT LIKE BROCCOLI.

I think it has everything to do with the severe lack of self-discipline I was talking about yesterday, and the amount that I meet my own want to be better with DON’T WANNA is sometimes overwhelming. As you can probably tell, I have done nothing as of yet to correct my past sins and move toward my future want to change. I know what I need to do, and yet I’m at a loss as to how to force myself to do it when I just really, really, really don’t want to. Sometimes I would rather be punched in the face than answer an email or write up a cover letter*** or move a box to a different room. I’m not even sure where to start. I don’t have a nice, neat little ending to this post, because I’m almost as frustrated with myself as Mr. B is right now. Maybe that will finally push me over the line into accountability, but I guess we’ll see. Baby steps, right?

Instead, I will leave you with a relevant-ish peek into domestic life with me and Mr. B:

B-But I guess if I’m going to be a housewife I should do the duties of a housewife… Except I’m not a houseweife I’m a domestic partner.
Mr.B- You are not domestic. You are feral.

*which I know is super painful, but so gross. he obviously insisted on showing me pictures of its removal.
**my own mess. always.
***actually I would rather be stabbed in the thigh with one of those huge restaurant-grade dinner forks than write a cover letter, but that’s a post for another day

Bank Account Woes

I have spent WAY too much money this week. All on being social. Ram’s Head, Melting Pot, Public Bar, Guapo’s… those establishments should not be in such close proximity on my bank statement. And yet there they are. Mocking me. Reminding me of how much I DON’T regret hanging out and laughing with the people I love. But also how quickly the first comes every month.

I’ll admit it, I have forgotten how to be broke. When I was a tech writer, it was like a food and going-out bonanza all the time. We hate our jobs, let’s escape to lunch! Happy hour? Great idea! Already went out twice this week? We’re only young once! I know in my head that I can’t do that anymore, or at least not with the zeal and frequency as once before, but I don’t want to have to face it.

Last time I freelanced, I was so broke I was consistently one to two hundred dollars short on the rent. I never planned anything and ran out of money immediately, and when all our friends would go out, I would join them and do my best to not look hungry. Someone usually took pity on me and would buy me a drink or an appetizer, but that made me feel worse.*

The most important (and time-sensitive) lesson I need to learn is discipline. If I’m going to splurge, I have to know that that is my splurge for the month. If I’m going to sleep in, I need to know that that is my day to sleep in for the week. My self-induced structure is currently a house of cards, and that ain’t gonna fly come rent day.

*Though never bad enough to refuse it more than once. Mama’s not that proud.

Living /= Writing

Hi, hello. I know, and I’m sorry.

In the past four weeks or so my life has changed dramatically in exactly the way that this blog was set up to capture, so obviously I did nothing to actually capture it as such. In a burst of can-do energy, I applied to a part time house management position at a local theater, and got it. Still not planning on actually quitting the hated/loved/hated day job, I had to be convinced that this was, in fact, a sign that I am, in fact, ready to move on and actually pursue my dreams (thanks boyfriend.) So I did it.

My team lead generally came in several hours after I did, so I had to sit there for most of the day while my heart raced along. My work girlfriends did what they could to keep me calm, but I was still not totally convinced quitting now was the right choice, and also holy crap I was about to just walk out on two years at my first “real” job. He finally came in; I asked to speak with him privately. I skittered to a conference room, whirled around to face him with my shaking, sweating, beet red self, and stammered that I had been offered a job at a theater. I shoved my two weeks’ notice at him and waited for his response.

I don’t know what I expected. He didn’t slap me. He didn’t rip up my resignation. He didn’t say, “You can’t quit YOU’RE FIRED.” He was super nice, and said I would be missed. Then we went back to our desks, probably because he could see that my knees were about three words from buckling. My heart raced for the rest of the day.

Two weeks flew by, in which I was trained in my new job and wrapped up my old. My work friends took me out to celebrate my departure, and I acted the requisite hot mess. On my last day, I spent about an hour fighting back a panic attack, and ultimately had to run out the door so I wouldn’t burst into tears and be all the wrong kinds of hot mess. And then it was September, and oh yeah we didn’t mention the fact that the new part time job is between shows so I had four shifts this month.

Oh. My b. But I decided it was a good thing (I had to) and decided to finish and put up all my shiz I’ve been trying to get started (website, etsy store, sending resumes out for overhire, etc.) for a year and just never did it. And I was really really good for the first day or so.

And then I got used to sleeping in, WAY too quickly. And the boyfriend works 3-11p so it actually takes effort to make myself work when he and Mad Men on Netflix Watch Instantly are so tantalizingly close by. And so I floundered in the motivation department, and gained 8 pounds, which pretty much brings us to today.

For example, it is 2:25pm on Monday and I have not yet put on a bra. I have an excuse, but it makes me look worse: I am waiting for the laundry cycle to finish because I am completely out of clean underwear. So yeah. I need a schedule. I am what they say, a great boss and a terrible employee.

So that’s my goal this week: make myself a schedule, and actually stick with it. Blogging will be part of this schedule, because it’s important. Not only to you, my zero readers, but to me, because I am the kind of person who has to express herself or she gets all jumbled inside and then REALLY nothing gets done.

First thing’s first, I’ve got to go see a man about a bra.