Awkwardly Social

Solutions are being formed.
My housing situation is being figured out.
My driver’s license is still missing.
I have decided to stop trying to control things I have no control over.
Sort of.
According to Weboggle, I’m an idiot.
But honestly, who knew ‘lin’ was a word?

If you don’t know me, you don’t know this about me. I am really hard to get a hold of. I hate the telephone with the burning rage I normally reserve for poor customer service and, ironically, people who don’t return my phone calls.

Right now I’m trying to get a hold of my father. He lives on the internet 8 hours a day. But those eight hours are spent watching the various stock market tickers. It seems that unless I actually call my grandma’s house (which I can’t do because I can’t talk to my Grandma right now) or somehow get the stock market to spell out “Call Tamara and leave a message about the Camp Verde PO Box,” I’m fucked.

So buy some stocks today - specifically those with the above letters. And Dad, e-mail me back.

I totally just nerd baited myself. I was looking at this Star Wars site where they compare the original films with the Special Edition and DVD releases. I got to the sound portion and the guy uses the word “echo.” And in my head I said, “It’s called ‘reverb’.” That’s when I realized that I was nerdier than the Star Wars nerd.

The Pottery Barn catalogue came last night. I looked at the overpriced furniture and bedding with more than a little longing. But when I put that furniture and bedding in my apartment (in my mind) I always see it with all my scraps of paper, used dishes, dust, mismatched books, and dead flowers on it. The magazine pages are remarkably free of clutter. I just don’t live like that. Apparently that means I can’t spend $579 on a pair of night stands. Fine, Universe, I get it. Message received.

I’ve been looking through childhood pictures of me, partly because my mom keeps sending them and partly because I’m working on a new project, and while I see the family resemblance physically, I don’t see the clutter in the back ground. Maybe because they were all taken around holidays? Mom hid the clutter?

All I can think about is the clutter and how it’s totally fucking up the Feng Shui of my apartment. Making me unproductive. I might need an intervention. This weekend might be a clean up the apartment weekend. An out with the old weekend. A scraps of paper weekend.

I have two days to talk myself out of it.

My anxiety is wreaking havoc with my sleep schedule. In essence, I now know what it feels like to be an 80 year old woman. I think in large part this has to do with the crazy decrease in running, my impending ‘cycle’ and the move of death.

I can now pinpoint the reason for my constant malaise and ill humor during the late 90’s and early 2000’s. I moved 8 times in roughly 7 years. A move a year is one too many. I cannot handle the stress of looking for a new place, thinking about my credit report and boxing up my possessions. The last part is usually the most difficult, which, considering my credit report… should be really surprising to you. I hate the fact that I am an incurable pack rat, that I have an intense need to keep every slip of paper ever mailed to me, that when I buy something - I save the receipt for decades. It’s so dumb. I even bought a book called, “How to Be Organized In Spite of Yourself.” It didn’t take. Top all this off with the fact that I lost my wallet and my Arizona Driver’s License was in it, and I have no idea if the DMV is actually going to send me a new one to my address in Los Angeles…

I realize this is all very whiny and I should just suck it up and deal, but for the life of me, all I can do is go home, turn on the TiVo and watch Top Chef, Wildfire, and Beautiful People, and that stresses me out because I should be writing my screen play so that one day I will achieve the level of fame and recognition I deserve. (that last part was me joking around)

I haven’t seen myself like this since grad school ended and I had no way to make money. At that point I surfed the internet all day, and beat myself up for not doing an internship that would give me the ’skills’ needed to do a job that I could do with my eyes closed (answer phones and get coffee orders correct). Here’s where the music gets really sad and I curl up in bed and try to figure out why Daphne Zuniga has the same hair she had 10 years ago on Melrose Place.

I’m waiting for my operating instructions, Universe. Give me a damned sign.

I’m not sure who invented the Bloody Mary, and then took it one step further and decided it was the perfect accompaniment for Sunday Brunch, but damn… they owe me a liver.

Let’s all be glad for a moment that I no longer feel required to worship on Sunday mornings, and that the run I did before brunch was only 2 miles, because it really has opened up a big slot for drinking. The big slot being my mouth. Or a time period not to exceed 10:30 to 2:30.

It seems if I want to ensure a healthy liver for the rest of my life I’m going to have to run and train for marathons. Forever.

I’m so stressed out right now. Trying to find a new place to live always has me worked up for largely no reason. It’s not like the universe is going to leave me homeless. Just, maybe, I don’t know, stuck in the goddamned Valley. Once you move to the Valley, you never come back. And that’s just something I’m not ready for. Until maybe, come April 28th, when I don’t have any place to live but a lovely 2 bedroom in Northridge.

Excuse me while I go throw up.

I’ve learned that when someone asks if you want the regular or ‘grande’ sized margarita, always go for grande. Always. Which is exactly what I did last night. I was warned not to go to Acapulco, told to go to Casita del Campo or El Conquistador, but I knew I just wanted to walk in and be seated without any parking hooha or booth/table drama. So we went to Acapulco.

Looking over the rim of my grande house margarita (rocks with salt) at my adorable boyfriend, listening to him giggle about the flamboyant presentation of the menu… so worth not getting a great meal.

I can’t wait for May when green corn tamale season at El Cholo begins. Best Mexican food in LA can be found at the location on Western. The Westwood location… seems a little chainy for my taste.

Today has been an continous onslaught of inefficiency masked as ‘customer service,’ starting with the SBC Farm team I like to call the “We Repeat everything you say. Twice. And we sound suspiciously like we’re in India though they have given us names like Ray and Selma to hide the fact that we actually ARE in India, Customer Service Department of SBC.” I swear. To. GOD. If I could physically crawl through a phone line and get to whatever location these persistantly polite ‘customer service’ reps are located, even if it took me three days to do it… I totally would.

I have very little patience for ‘repeaters.’ Strike that. I have very little patience. Today it was stretched to the limit and broken. All my patience for the rest of the year was used up in the span of 45 minutes. Gone. I’m out. Don’t cross me. At least until I get the Dot.

PS - To the writers of Lost. Your show bites ass.

Apparently the only thing holding me together and keeping me from sleeping 12 out of 24 hours per day (that number would be higher, but I have this thing I like to do called ‘make money’) was the 8-12 hours a week I spent running. Now I’m getting close to being full fledged crazy again. I lay in bed anxiously checking off things that I’m supposed to be doing but haven’t done, and then instead of getting up and doing them, I think about more things that I’m also supposed to be doing. ‘Overwhelmed’ doesn’t really even scratch the surface of what I feel every damned morning and night.

So, I guess I’ll have to take up some kind of activity for the rest of my life. Just saying those words makes me want to crawl into bed and sleep. Activity for the rest of my life… (Now I’m hearing the Imperial March. Ugh.) Tennis anyone? Is tennis fun?

The full marathon post will be up later today over at the other blog.

When we were kids my sister and I had an ongoing argument about who was actually older. Obviously, she got the brains in the family because she always insisted that even though her birthday was in March - two WHOLE MONTHS following mine - she was older. I was such an annoying little brat. (Was…ha.)

Since my birthday fell in the cold dark month of January and I am from a family of procrastinators, we usually held sort of a half-assed Christmas themed party for me. I say half-assed not because my mom didn’t expend a great deal of effort on my parties, but because… um… stringing birthday streamer on a dried up old Christmas tree and calling it a “Birthday Tree” strikes me as using ones procrastination wisely. I should be so smart with my kids.

Shit, this is supposed to be about my sister. Me, me, me. As you’ve probably guessed today is her birthday. She’s a spring baby. Which means she always got better presents, in my opinion. Chicks and ducks and bunnies and chocolate. Which of course always made me seeth with jealous rage, because my birthday was so close to Christmas, I always suspected my parents just held back a few gifts for me and wrapped them up in birthday paper. Back in the eighties people didn’t do that whole diplomatic bullshit, if one kid is being showered with presents the other one should get a little something. Oh no. One kid had a birthday and that was their special day, you were lucky you got to eat the cake. And speaking of cakes, my sister was way ahead of the curve on the “Nerds shall inherit the Earth” trend. We’re talking a Superman cake, at age 7 or 8. For a girl. Reason number 72 why my sister is the best. Superman! On her cake!

Happy birthday, Tavia. I guess I can safely say, you are older than me. Chicks and ducks and chocolate bunnies for you on your special, special day. I’ll just be over here, plotting my revenge.