I like my job. Not today, which is why I'm blogging and not editing, but in general. I definitely don't hate it (which, in the job world, is the same as liking it), and see it as that glittery little stepping stone that I like to call the "job-that-directly-precedes-my-real-job" job. Let's hope anyway...I don't LOVE it...

At times I, like any other non-robot, get to the point where I'm SO sick of waking up at the same time every single morning, going to the same job where I see the same people and do the same task repeatedly for 8 hours a day. It's like that movie Groundhog's Day. Nevertheless, there are interesting dynamics here. The company was conceived of, built, and maintained for 20 years by two women, who have since hired only women to work in the office. We have a full kitchen that is completely stocked at all times with company money (a girl's gotta eat!). There are eight of us - two sets of mother/daughter, one aunt/niece, and one (the neice) who is also the girlfriend of her boss's son. You figure it out... Now, while I know that such a situation sounds like the recipe for a competitive, judgemental, premenstrual-driven nightmare, the environment is shockingly very nurturing and supportive. My boss sends me emails about how much she appreciates my work (which does NOT make up for the raise-that-never-was, mind you -- See September 6 post), everyone is very supportive as we collectively try and fail at about 6 different diet fads a week, and having a period gives you every right to be a total bitch or burst out in tears for one week every single month, no questions asked. The latter ROCKS, you can't get that just anywhere!

But the only thing worse than the monotony of work, is not having enough work. Nothing makes me want to hone my red-pen-drawn tattoo or root-canal-carving skills more than having nothing at all to do. And leaving is not an option -- not because one of these skinny little gym-faithful mom/bosses won't let me go if I toss out the cramp defense, but because my landlord won't take the cramp defense as payment when I don't get enough hours. Times like these make me seethe at the conversation going on in the next office regarding, as usual, who is throwing the next jewelry/snacktime/tupperware/Mary Kay party. And if I hear another casual mention of how big someone's butt has gotten while they lick the cream cheese frosting off the carrot cake that is a necessary part of every single office birthday celebation, I might flip out......!

I wish I had tupperware. With matching lids. THAT would be rad.

I wish I had picture frames. Then I wouldn't have to take pictures of the landlord's wall decor so I can accurately put HIS house back together when I stop making enough to pay rent, take his beautiful abstract paintings out of his frames and replace them with the comforting smiles of my family and friends, and center the new art on the existing nails throughout the house that I pretend is mine.

I wish I had the courage to remind my boss that it's September. That she must have accidentally forgotten about my August-evaluation-turned-much-deserved-raise... That I am barely making it and being taken advantage of...

I wish I valued myself enough to admit that I am good enough for tupperware with matching lids. That my voice is strong, my words are smart, and my passion and ability make me an asset to my company. To any company.

I've wished on all the brightest stars, proposed hundreds of preposterous deals to the G-O-D, and done all sorts of little good deeds to ensure that my karma remains in the positive. What I haven't done is spoken up for myself, truly believed in myself. And yet, the next line I originally wrote was that I hope I begin recognizing my worth someday soon. Someday is now, and I'm ready...

When I was 16 years old, a psychologist (yeah, that's a whole 'notha story...) told me that I had an "addictive personality." Basically, she was saying quit experimenting with drugs and alcohol because, as you can see, you will most likely become addicted to every single thing you try. She was right. Not that it stopped me.

So, addicted I am, and not only to substances. I am absolutely addicted to words, to the art of uniting words to acheive a metaphor that people don't just hear, but feel. Addicted to the search for the right words and the people who already discovered it, because I know I haven't. My name is Erin...I'm addicted to poetic language...

So imagine my fascination when I came across the word-promoting project entitled "Free Words" (http://www.freewords.org). Created by visual artist Sal Randolph, the book proclaims that it "belongs to whoever finds it." Three-thousand copies were produced and placed in random spots around the world, bragging "no-rights reserved" and free for the taking; echoing the "gift society" proposed by Monsieur Mauss in the late 19th Century, it's oddly inspiring to think that someone spent nearly 10 years collecting words, never expecting a dime in royalties or publicity, and encouraged the pink-label finders to take the book home, think it over, and pass it along.......SIMPLY for the sake of loving and sharing inspirational words. The 13,000 word stream of consciousness is somehow exactly what I look for when I go to the bookstore, but never find...never actually knew I was looking for, in fact... It consists of semi-random words and word phrases, gathered together but heard separate, listed in a free-form style that begs word-addicts like me to print it, cut it, rearrange it, and begin making something my own again. Soooo...I have challenged myself to look t the words and be inspired, especially by the ones I don't know or never use. I NEED badly to write, as I have kept so much inside that I feel like I'm suffocating, and "Free Words" may very well be my new beginning.......

I consider myself blessed to have never known unrequited love. I have an ex-boyfriend who, two years after our short relationship ended, still frequently texts, calls, emails (with his email address that is made up of a combination of our names, mind you) and begs to know what went wrong with us. He tells me that he expected to marry me and won't give up on that dream. I've told him in many different languages - sad, angry, apologetic, rude, letsbefriends - that we just aren't compatible, i.e. I'm absolutely not interested in you the same way you are me. And it breaks my heart! Every single time he pours his heart out to me, sounding absolutely broken and lost, I want to hold his balding little head in my hands and tell him never mind...I made a mistake and absolutely can't continue on this path knowing that I've hurt someone's feelings like this! I know, I can't...and WOULDN'T (I don't think...), but I just imagine the heartache that must accompany loving someone so much and getting nothing in return...

What I have felt, though, is the soul's helpless and hopeless yearning caused by ill-timed love. You know, when you inadvertently find yourself enveloped by complete adoration for someone who you believe likewise loves you and makes you feel incredibly special, yet you know that even wishing on the brightest star will not allow you to be together. You fool yourself for awhile, thinking....no, not thinking at all......knowing in your heart that if you continue to share this deep, pure, magical affection, something's gotta give. That if anyone is listening to your heart breaking, your soul praying, your body sobbing, then she will somehow rearrange the cosmic forces of the universe and make everything work out..... But rarely will we walk away from these experiences with a feeling of accomplishment, a feeling of growth and appreciation...

UNLESS, of course, you are aware of the relationship as a learning experience, a necessary part of life that demonstrates the power of love to move your soul. A fire that has been lit beneath you to reiterate what you already knew, but maybe disregarded as a new-relationship phenomenon; namely, that this is how love feels in its purest form, this is what we search for and are encouraged not to settle-for-less-than. That these painful types of love are a way of renewing your faith in the possiblity of emotion so deep, your faith in love itself.....

"If I never meet you in this life, let me feel the lack. A glance from your eyes and my life will be yours." - The Thin Red Line

“Forget not that the earth delights to feel your bare feet and the winds long to play with your hair.” --Kahlil Gibran

Tonight I feellike I have had enough adult activity for a long time... Anyone who knows me is certain that I am a 26-year-old woman trapped in a 14-year-old soul. I wake up very early every morning, and I'm so certain that everyone else around me also wants to witness the miracle of every sunrise that I sing a "morning song" at the top of my lungs--something I learned in Sunday School 15 years ago, Carol King, the Carpenters.... It matters not what song it is, but the way it makes my heart SOAR for the rest of the day. And that's not the extent of my juvenile behavior...no, that's just the beginning.

I have an inexplicable, deep-seeded fear of cancer and wrinkles that keeps me out of the sun and invested in spray tanners; as such, I not only act like I'm 16 but I actually LOOK like I'm 16! I should be way more stressed about my financial situation than I am, but I can't bring myself to take life that seriously. I am fairly certain that my plight in life is to spread the cheer of a child to those who have gotten too serious about life to really be in touch with their inner selves. And that inner self is what keeps us young, keeps things fun, and makes every single sunrise the most amazing miracle one has ever witnessed.

I wish I could convince the world that its okay to be silly, that knowledge of music and tone is unnecessary when the song is sung by your heart, and that burdens not given to God will slowly destroy your soul and cause you to age beyond your years....not to mention, I think it gives you wrinkles..... :)

Lessons in bad parenting

When I decided to start a blog a few days ago, I wasn't sure how I would use it. I was sure how I SHOULD use it, since I consider myself an aspiring writer, but not how - or whether - I actually would exercise and hone my skills. Being the internalizing, I'll-deal-with-that-later type, it's no wonder that I have actually created a profile on about 5 different blog sites over the past year or so, never to create an entry on any of them.


But that was before my father called a couple days ago, and I suddenly took sanctuary in the idea of getting these thoughts out of mind mind before they poison me. Having just turned 26 and making the monumental decision to move from my Mom's house in Michigan to my own apartment in Florida, the call from a parent would otherwise be routine, expected even. In my case, the call from a father with whom I hadn't spoken for 8 or so years - despite living in the same small town our whole lives - caused a whirlwind of long-supressed thoughts and regrets and yearnings and bitterness and hope... The latter being my greatest mistake, again.


My parents, like too many others, were divorced when I was 5. My father had become an abusive alcoholic, a shameless liar, and an all-around waste of space. To make a long story short, my 3 siblings and I would continue to sit in the car outside the bar every other weekend and for 1/2 of every school vacation for the next ten years or so; in turn, we reached 16 years of age, and the self-appointed master of good judgment at the county courthouse decided that we suddenly had minds of our own. That would be the last I would see of my father, unless by some accident I didn't scour the gas station in our small town good enough before pulling in, and had the misfortune of running into him.


But my problem is this: as much hostility as I have for that man, there are times when I feel a yearning for him so deep in my soul that it makes me throw up, sob uncontrollably, and altogether retreat into myself. I dealt with the dichotomy of emotions as long as I needed to, in order to maintain a positive attitude long enough to grow and accomplish my immediate goals. The year that I graduated from college, I grabbed a box of tissues and went to see my dad. My father, who had stopped paying child support $30,000 prior to my visit, who hadn't called once while I was killing myself to get through school, so generously told me that he was glad I had come, and that he was going to find a way to pay for my next year's tuition since it would be my last year (his only source of income, for the sake of silliness I add, was an ambitious 7-day paper route). My heart broke, and I left without telling him that three weeks prior I had become the first member of my family to graduate from college.


Fast forward four years, otherwise I'll have inadvertently written my first novel, and the man that I had again been longing for, again broke my heart. Under the guise of needing my brother's phone number (he could have at least feigned a sudden interest in my life), my father called my cell phone while I was at work...crying... Against my better judgement I took the call, and thus began my trek back inward, unable to breathe let alone be myself for the next two days, at which time I reinstated the supression technique. From our conversation I learned that he was being evicted from his home, was preparing to be homeless, and that there was a whole line of SOBs who were responsible for this awful fate. He was broken and, against my will, my soul wept, my chest ached with pressure, and I felt a sincere hatred of myself for not having money to send to my dad, not being in Michigan when he was alone, and basically not being everything he needed the moment he needed it. He wanted money, but more than I could give; he wanted a place to stay, but closer that my new home... He wanted everything that I longed to give him but could not. And maybe I likewise wanted things that he sincerely wished he could provide - love, attention, praise, memories - but he simply could not.