Push Me Pull Me

Yikes, it's been a while.

I've been feeling pretty stressed, actually. For Profit is taking much of my time and making me worry about Non Profit. And poor, poor No Profit (MFA Applications & novel writing) is suffering the most.

I am having trouble balancing my time - trying to survive through the present while still taking the steps I need to encourage a better future. This is exhausting. It is all too easy to feel like a failure here. And that is none too useful.

Alright. Back to work.

Weekend Review

What a day. What a weekend. What a world.

Alright, that may be a bit dramatic.

But this weekend was too much to do again. And so was the week that preceded it. No wonder I think of I have The Mono.

Here is the rundown, starting from my much-suffering return from Mexico, Friday the 6th. This is probably very boring to read if you're not me, but I am God Blogger, so I will write this anyways. Hopefully my next post will be far more entertaining...:

Friday - Returned, finally, from Mexico after endless broken Spanglish tussles with lying people who charged me more money than should allow them to sleep at night (aka, the staff at the Hilton in Mexico City).

Saturday - Caitlin! Brunch at Palo Santo, tromping around Prospect Park, tromping around Central Park, the longest subway ever in Astoria for gentrified Greek food, The Pillowman performed in church, thoughts of going-out, but, even better, sleep.

Sunday - Morning work in the local cafe, brunch at Henry Public, life-reviving Bloody Marys & delightful bartenders to boot, further tipples at the Brooklyn Inn and bocce at Floyd before enormous nightcap burgers at Waterfront Ale House.

Monday - Zoom zoom into midtown to log hours for the For Profit Man (FPM), dinner party at the apartment courtesy of Chef Porchichi and Walnut Muse Cody.

Tuesday - Work at home morning, launch of very cool FPM social media project, Twitter madness, lunch at the wireless-full Building on Bond, good-bye to Caitlin, zoom zoom into midtown, leftovers at home.

Wednesday - Work at home day of slight frustration and frazzled freelance.

Thursday - Meeting with the Non-Profit Man (NPM) all the way out in Queens, afternoon work at home, evening hermitage.

Friday - Zoom zoom into midtown, zoom zoom back to Brooklyn, reading other people's writings, writing nothing at all myself. Mild self-derision and party-time of guilt ensue.

Saturday - Brunch with Ellen and general wandering, questionable shopping choices, further exploration of increasing bocce skills, ChipShop chowder, late night joshing at Brooklyn Inn.

Sunday - Massive bridge walk 1, sixteen cups of coffee on the Lower East Side, massive bridge walk 2, Pratt MFA Open Students for the artsy kids, shady pungent pints at Alibi in Clinton Hill, early dinner and emotive girl-time with Jen at Alchemy.

Monday - Zoom zoom into midtown, zoom zoom back to Brooklyn, deep and ponderous thoughts on The Mono, blogging, bed.

Whew.

The Mono

Maybe I have the Mono.

I have been so exhausted ever since Mexico, and I'm not entirely sure why. Hmmm. I will just stay home, under the covers, and work from here as long as I possibly can. Yes.

Just say no to Mono.

No Mono. No.

Steam Heat

I am feeling very frustrated.

It seems like my day is eaten up by other companies, and yet I'm still struggling to pay my rent. Where is the money from all of this? If I'm going to have the stress of deadlines, deliverables, and client meetings, why must I still have the stress of affording groceries?

It is ridiculous to work this hard and be this poor.

Ridiculous.

Returned

Back in the swing of things - and completely exhausted.

Home

Ahhh.

Mexicana and Me

I have always wanted to spend a night in Mexico City. Yes. And who would have thought that tonight would be my lucky night? Oh, Mexicana Air, that's right. You would.

Unfortunately, this travel debacle isn't 100% Mexicana's fault, but really, when a flight departure time is moved just days before the flight, and the flight is a return international flight in a third-world country, wouldn't you think calling the American ticket-holder on her cell-phone to alert her to the change might not be the best way to get in touch with her? As she's an American? And so is her cell phone?

This wouldn't bother me so much except all my previous interactions with the airline were handled online. Web booking. E-Commerce. Email confirmations. I thought we had a virtual relationship, Mexicana. I didn't know you wanted to take it to the next level. Like a text-to-voicemail-to-call-to-in-person fling, our relationship just moved too fast. I'm not in the right place for this kind of thing, Mexicana. But, oh, how little you care.

Hell hath no fury like an airline's scorn.

I suppose I could have checked my cell phone messages from the hotel landline, incurring gross fees, yes, but still slightly smaller charges than what it cost to amend the flight itinerary after "missing" my flight, and paying for the overnight hotel room in Mexico City.

Yes, I have always wanted to spend a night in Mexico City. Have I always wanted to spend it alone, $350 out of pocket, with some kind of highly unpleasant Mexican flu? Why no. No, not exactly.

No me gusto.

Still, a caballo regalado, no le mires el diente... If it's a burro, though, all bets are off.

Bottle 3/4 Full

The last day in Mexico... and I still have 3/4 of my bingo prize tequila left.

It's been a very mellow trip, all neo-nazis aside, and I've gotten some wonderful hours of sun, reading, and sleeping in, along with immensely enjoyable quality time with la mama.

Still, it will be nice to be back - back with my random freelancer's patterns, the wake-up work, the morning gym, the home-cooked lunch, the office afternoons, and the late-night wanderings. I feel so out of touch with my friends right now, it's disorienting.

"Mexico sounds disconnecting," my self-proclaimed muse Jen just wrote me.

So what happens when you lose the chord and shuffle the cards? Spin the tiny orange, green, red, white balls and give in to chance?

Bingo.

And 3/4 a bottle of remaining tequila.

More on The Fireman

The Fireman is a recovering neo-nazi supremacist and I have the Mexican flu.

Perhaps I should partially explain:

My mom arranged a special outing for me and The Fireman. I was okay with this. I will see town, I thought. I will go to Mexican bars. I will experience a bit of la vida loca. Si. Se puede. I am okay with this.

Of course, within five minutes of sitting down on the Jesus bus into Vallarta, I know this is a mistake.

"Man, I remember once," starts The Fireman, "I totally lost my friend for, like, three months after a night out."

Oh. Hmm. I cross my arms.

"We were crazy, you know. Fuck shit up crazy. And he did two 8-balls."

Like pool?

"You know, California 8-balls."

Like cocaine?

"No. Man. Where are you from again? Like California 8-balls are the eight drugs that are supposed to kill you if you combine them. So he did that after we poured liquid acid and PCP on the White Widow, and man, I didn't see that guy for three months."

Did he die?

"Dang no, did he die? Takes more than 8-balls to kill a marine. He just showed up with a baby next time I see him."

A baby? In 3 months?

"Okay, not a baby. But this knocked-up girl. Same thing."

Yup.

And so begins the Mexican date with The Fireman. Thank goodness for Mama's good choices.

Don't get me wrong - he seems like a very nice guy, this Fireman, though perhaps not quite the guy for me. Maybe it's because I have no prior personal knowledge of the Californian 8-ball of death, nor no pressing need to gather any additional information on that front.

Or maybe, just maybe, it's because he confided in me that he used to be a neo-nazi in all the neo-nazi gangs.

Yes, maybe that's it.

"I told this kid who comes into the EMT, cause I'm working the EMT, I tell him, what the fuck do you have on your chest? You think you're tough shit. You're part of a gang? I'm part of the biggest gang there is, I tell this kid."

I'm along for the ride, now, Fireman. Do tell me, what biggest gang is it that you're a part of?

"I'm part of the Fireman gang."

Oh, thank God, I think, imagining we are out of those proverbial woods. Smokey the Bear has shepherded us from the danger zone once again.

But wait.. he's still talking...

"...and White Power."

White Power?

"You know, neo-nazis."

Can we talk about the Californian 8-balls again?

"Like white supremacy."

So here I sit on the Malecon in Puerto Villarta, after midnight with a complete stranger who regales me with stories about murderous marines ("He shot this Mexican guy at a gas station three times and floored him. But the Mexican, he pulled out a gun first. All on camera. So my marine friend, man, he gets off free. In fact, to his friends, man, he's a hero.") and former racist collectives ("Never used a knife, though. Brought it out, but never used it. And I'm over it. It was stupid. We were young. And the Fireman are a better gang anyway.").

It has taken me 26 years to decide Mama does not know best. Mama knows a killer neo-nazi Fireman. And Mama has left me in the middle of a third-world country with him.

So I politely stand up, my two-liter "Day Off Cocktail" hardly touched, and yawn.

Yes, I am so tired. I'm sorry. I'm getting so, so old. I think I need to go back to the hotel.

And wouldn't you know it, the Fireman is the perfect gentleman. He calls a cab, we head back to Costa Sur, say goodnight, and I'm finally home, safe, alone in my room.

Then the incredible Mexican flu sickness starts.

Ah, vacation. Yes.

Q and W

Mom keeps trying to hook me up with The Fireman. Mexican time-share vacations with wily mama - nothing short of a bodice-ripping adventure.

I will not hook up with The Fireman. Instead, I will find anti-social corners under this beautiful palapa and try to get online, send my freelance work to my employers, and dissuade the many little red ants from climbing into the crevices between the Q and W keys on my keyboard. How they do love my Q and W keys, these little bastards.

Halloween was spent at a slightly too-empty donkey bar in town and then with our toes in the sand and Chilean wine in our bellies. Muy bueno.

Last night we tromped past makeshift gravestones along a tiny road down into town. Once there, we feasted on fresh red snapper and sangria, then walked along the waves to the Malecon.

It is so calm here, so peaceful.

I feel things are being worked out, patiently, privately, with the pink bulbous sun, the rich blanket forest, the roadside crucifixes, the insect deaths in my keyboard.