Dog days are over

In a fit of something I can’t quite define, I have decided that the only way I’m going to really start blogging again is by simply starting.  And not stopping.

So I’m sitting in my office, contemplating a variety of tasks all up to me to plan, a close-approaching trip to the Finger Lakes and the general path of the last few years of my life.  Grooveshark has helpfully provided a soundtrack that I’ve always found encouraging: .

Non-Jeffersonian explanation of recent changes

Possible that I’ve been spending some time watching John Adams and was thus moved to declare my actual career independence rather than simply stating that I’d quit my job.

So, in plain English, I’ve quit my job.  And will be back to the corporate communications grindstone May 5, far away from the wretched conditions here.  Which hardly warrant re-hashing more than to say they have been painful.

And in this particular slice of time, I am quite happy.

Throw your hands up at me (or how I’ve declared independence)

When in the course of human events it becomes necessary for one woman to dissolve the employment bands which have connected her with another and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature’s God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that she should declare the causes which impel her to the separation.

Everywhere you turn is luck

My favorite line, from my favorite poem, oft excerpted here yet somehow still not often enough.

Because this morning I woke up singing oldies and drinking songs and missed Ireland, but would rather be here.

Don’t call it a comeback

If there is anything satisfying about making a comeback, it is the exact moment when you close the door on misery, and stride confidently into the day.  I like to imagine “Good Day Sunshine” strumming in the background.  You smile, and put it all in the past.  A  new beginning.

It’s a good forumla for emotional victory when there is a finite end date in sight.

Trying very hard, because I promised to.

As I’ve said in the past, my old go-to in terms of coping with an impending day of misery was to imagine myself past it.  To conjure how I’d feel in the future, perfect-tense, looking back on the dread moment.

It’s not a mechanism that lends itself well to the sixth of February.  There is no magical perfect-tense date on which to perch and cast a wary eye back.  In fact, there isn’t even really a dread moment, either.  Every moment is the one I fear, and the sum of all the moments I spent in fear of so long before that.

Dulce et decorum est

Nine dollars can do a lot of things. And I don’t even mean feeding-a-kid-on-a-quarter-a-day things.

I mean, it can buy really good hummus and some cucumber, tomato, and pita. It can buy a shirt on sale at the Gap outlet on Chestnut. It can buy a Belgian beer with change to tip. It can buy the Juno soundtrack on iTunes. But Sunday night, I used my nine clams to cry.

She’s old enough to know better (so cry, baby cry)

It’s more than a day and a dollar late and short, but I’m newly fired up about La Clinton’s momentary emoting.

I can’t pinpoint why, but my inability to pinpoint exactly why I so dislike HC’s campaign has brought me a lot of angst lately.  Like so many women, I’m torn, and feeling a little like a traitor for not blithely supporting another vadge.  Maybe, as some feminists have suggested, it’s because I’m having trouble seeing myself in her campaign.  Maybe I want to be able to connect with her, and her pandering and robot veneer are in the way.

Talking, or not talking … for hours

I happily hold forth on my pet subjects for hours.  Wii, coffee, the merits of fall vs. spring, the disastrous effects of broadcast journalism, this city of supposed brotherly love, and the downfall of modern grammar. These all elicit almost immediate and well-worn monologues.  But let someone dare ask for further clarification when I beg out of plans for “not feeling well,” and all I hear are the messy mechanical noises of a factory shutting down.  Nope.  Just don’t feel well.

Hate of the Union

Despite believing that people are better off for continual self improvement, and despite the fact that I generally feel more reflective on birthdays, I can’t seem to dodge the sense that this ought to be some new beginning.  Trouble is, it’s difficult to begin something without a plan.

I’ve given myself a pass on the whole “life plan” thing for last few years.  Rolling around the calendar aimlessly seemed achievement enough.  But now, somehow, there is pressure again.  To be productive, to have a linear plan, to get with the program.  To partner off, to stop bitching about work like I’m in Reality Bites, and to function.  To stop overdrawing my bank account, work on a budget, clean up my room, get a real doctor, and grocery shop instead of eating out.  To swear less, bitch less, and drink less, and to be sweeter, more open, and  more direct.  To stop overbooking myself, go to the gym more, and finally take up yoga or some manner of meditation.

These are the things I should do in 2008.  I remember living by some theory in the Mezz that  I probably read in some horrible book.  Something about your life fitting into a triangle.  With an angle for platonic relationships,  one for romantic relationships, and another for work.  Or something.  When one angle was acute, the other two compensated.  A fine theory until your triangle collapses to a straight line (what, with no beginning or end, to boot).   When you’ve got a line, you have to build from scratch, and you’ve got to figure out where to start first.  Job searching is good, but lacks the immediate satisfaction I crave.  So I send applications into the ether and wait to be picked.  Sounds a lot like dating.

*