Vacation

Beginning 

a list of escape

plans - this is Monday

Night Fever.

Brooklyn. For $3000:

there's India. 

For $3000: 

there's first, last, 

security.

The cliche 

of lotus

blossoms.

Odysseus carried 

the ship's skeleton

every day on the beach;

an old man beginning

a list of escape

plans.

A is for...

See, I haven't totally forgotten, but life has sped up a bit and blogging isn't always the top priority. At least, not blogging for myself; blogging for my clients remains a pretty big deal.

Notice that? The plural on "clients" there? That's right; my tiny little freelance gig has blossomed into a company. I now have 3 clients - brands that have hired me to bring them into the social media space. Pretty neat.

Things are looking up, Economy 2.0. This tiny eek-by loose-change moonlighting stint might actually be the best choice I've ever made. Who knew? Maybe we all did.

After all, social media is an increasingly attractive alternative to traditional publicity or advertising. Brands that budgeted hundreds of thousands for traditional PR and advertising are wondering just what a fraction of the cost could get them on Twitter or Facebook.

Media impressions are one thing (and a good thing, don't get me wrong) - but media impressions don't compare with true brand engagement. It's like reading a book versus writing a paper on it; one gives you a blazing red A and some uptight dudes, another gives you Hester Prynne, the bastard Pearl, goody-goody Goodies, and some pretty damn modern thoughts on judgement, humanism and the steamrolling power (and spiritual irrelevance) of mass-minded morality. One you vaguely recall, the other you whole-heartedly remember.

Money well-spent, I suppose. And so now I cheat on my own blog with the blogs of others. Interesting. What was that about adultery? Where's my alphabet placard?

Tweet me a scarlet letter, then; at least I'm getting paid.

Empty Pockets, Bright Horizons

Well hello again! Clearly it's been a busy month. Basically, I've gone from tentatively freelancing to launching my own Social Media Consulting/Copywriting business. Yowzers.

How did all this happen? Who knows. But I'm excited as all get-out. Now comes the nitty-gritty of LLCing, choosing a brand color, designing a logo, ordering business cards, setting up quarterly taxes, and all that jazz. As a freelancer, I racked up a nice chuck of experience in social media, and as a small firm employee, I learned the soup to nuts of boutique business ownership. I feel prepared, but still breathless.

See those pockets? See that smile?

I feel like that.

Funion Gaga

Stress - you are ridiculous. Please leave me alone. I am happy and have everything I need to do well in this world. So, stress, you tell yourself and your buddies Guilt, Shame, Self-Doubt and Mad Crazy Pointless Worry to shush-yo-one-big-ugly-collective-face and get the hell outta town.

To spit in the eye of anxiety:

• "Mistakes are the portals of discovery," James Joyce.
• And for a nice ironic twist: the above quote may itself be a mistake, as Mr. Joyce is also quoted as saying: "A man's errors are his portals of discovery"
• And perhaps, irony-on-irony, both the above are incorrect, as there's also this: "A man of genius makes no mistakes; his errors are volitional and are the portals of discovery."

Either way, life is an onion. Better stop crying and start peeling. Like the carnivores say: once you kill a cow, you gotta make a burger.

Exhibition Isms

Yet another reason to love this town: even our museum guards are exhibition-holding artists.

Hoping to Graduate From Guards to Gauguins, The New York Times

A group of Met guards... is stepping into the spotlight with a new art journal called Sw!pe Magazine: Guards’ Matter, and an accompanying art exhibit, which runs through Sunday at 25CPW, a gallery at 62nd Street and Central Park West... The drawings, paintings, comics, prints, poetry and photography by 35 guards give exposure to the largely unnoticed workers who protect some of the world’s greatest treasures, not to mention dispense information on the quickest route to Renaissance Italy or to the bathroom.

Really, does it get any sexier than tall, dark, handsome museum guards wielding easels? My mind is racing through Met-tastic hallways filled with brooding men and their walkie-talkies, every one recession-proof and self-editing, jacket-clad with paint-stained ties. To top it all off, they know the way to da Vinci and the ladies' room. Well, slap my Pollack and me Patron; Mr. Artist-Guard, I'm sold.

The Starting Gate Zen

[BANG] And they're off!

The past two days have been a little insane. Welcome back to having two clients, I suppose. It's been exciting, though, to say the least, and I'm having a pretty good time with it, occasional heart-rate spikes aside.

Things are looking up for the little Cait & Associates - and making ends meet is very validating. I am so incredibly grateful for my past sixty days of sober vegan living. Whether it's bunk or not to the world, making very conscious choices about what I ingest and imbibe has deeply affected my outlook, attitude and energy. And not being hungover - ever - is maybe the single most amazing discovery I've made over the course of my (debatably) adult life. Incredible.

Positivity, social consciousness, healthy choices, man... Groovy.

On Chaos and Stars

What an amazing time to be an artist.

Not to say I am one, but, regardless, I'm grateful to be surrounded by people who clearly, undebatably are. This past week, I've seen the upside of the recession - sure, there has been a mini-bounce in our economy (more  a slight lessening of job cuts than a full-on recovery), but even more silver-lining-y, there has been such an awesome surge of creativity in this city, as people have realized that the safe route is no longer so safe.

I've been rejected by quite a few MFA programs in the past couple of weeks, but I'm surprisingly okay with that. I see the bright side here - thousands of people are applying for 25 slots per school and that means thousands of people consider studying the arts and pursuing their creative dreams to be a viable alternative to slogging it out in an entry-level job or enduring the ridiculous rigamarole of over-saturated, interminable interview processes. And here I am holding two jobs that reward my writing interests while allowing me the time I need to, well, figure things out. So all you real 100% artists out there, you go on and do your thing - just, for God's sake, make the most of it. Make incredible art out of these crazy times. Make today's instability seem so beautiful we all become grateful in hindsight - as grateful as I'm feeling now.

As much as I would LOVE to be accepted by a grad school program, I would also, in some small and curious way, love not to. (And please note the difference in capitalization and italics.) Part of me loves this version of New York City, where the arts programs are completely flooded by willing disciples, where experimental theater is pouring out of every sidewalk crack, where art sprouts in repurposed spaces and makeshift performance dens. This New York City where I can spend the days tweeting for clients whose missions I actually believe in, and then the nights supporting the creative minds populating the boroughs around me, from the incredibly awesome Tax Deductible Theater to the recession-exalting Independent Art Forum.

Life on life's terms, world. And ain't this the life.

Sleep with the Fishes

Okay, no more centipedes. In case you're interested in topics that actually relate to my blog's title, here's a little story about modern-day work culture (the author is unknown):

An American tourist was at the pier of a small coastal Mexican village when a small boat with just one fisherman docked.

Inside the small boat were several large yellowfin tuna. The tourist complimented the Mexican on the quality of his fish and asked how long it took to catch them.

The Mexican replied, "Only a little while."

The tourist then asked, "Why didn't you stay out longer and catch more fish?"

The Mexican said, "With this I have more than enough to support my family's needs."

The tourist then asked, "But what do you do with the rest of your time?"

The Mexican fisherman said, "I sleep late, fish a little, play with my children, take siesta with my wife, Maria, stroll into the village each evening where I sip wine and play guitar with my amigos, I have a full and busy life."

The tourist scoffed, " I can help you. You should spend more time fishing; and with the proceeds, buy a bigger boat: With the proceeds from the bigger boat you could buy several boats. Eventually you would have a fleet of fishing boats. Instead of selling your catch to a middleman you would sell directly to the processor; eventually opening your own cannery. You would control the product, processing and distribution. You could leave this small coastal fishing village and move to Mexico City, then Los Angeles and eventually New York where you could run your ever-expanding enterprise."

The Mexican fisherman asked, "But, how long will this all take?"

The tourist replied, "15 to 20 years."

"But what then?" asked the Mexican.

The tourist laughed and said, "That's the best part. When the time is right you would sell your company stock to the public and become very rich, you would make millions."

"Millions?...Then what?"

The American said, "Then you would retire. Move to a small coastal fishing village where you would sleep late, fish a little, play with your kids, take siesta with your wife, stroll to the village in the evenings where you could sip wine and play your guitar with your amigos."

Dear Centipede

I've been on a mental rollercoaster today... The day itself has been good - considering that included a trip to the dentist, that says a lot. Still, my mind is racing round the same boring track it's been racing round for nearly a year: how many ways did I wrong you, past platonic/professional/romantic relationship people?

Maybe it's because I've found some zen with my income, my body, and my friendships that I'm flipping over any and every stone fearing/hoping to unearth poisonous centipedes. Very poisonous centipedes. Very poisonous centipedes that I previously tortured and so they are not only very (very) poisonous, but resentful and - here's the absolute worst part - 100% entitled to both their poison and their resentment. Does that make any sense?

Now you see what my internal monologue has been like...

Culpability's a bitch. Especially when I realize that, even discovering everything I did wrong, each of these situations (and one in particular) still would have ended in total disaster. I could have just walked out, integrity, if not emotions, relatively intact. But no. I was so graceless in the rubble. So sadistically akimbo, knotted into a wrecking ball, hurling destruction at every wall, all the while screaming, "Why's it so messy in here?"

Centipede, these are the rocks I have hidden you under. You have a hundred little pieces I'm uncomfortable with. And here I am, un-balled and flipping over your refuge, coaxing you out and into the light, so I can look at you in the sunshine, freak the f*ck out, and realize I can't stomp on you without feeling guilty.

Oh dammit.

My Bellybutton, or Self-Discovery Rocks Part ii

In the interest of me me me, here is a completely new launchpad list of what I might really like to do with myself sometime between tomorrow and when I die:

• Book myself a ticket for one on a 11-day trip through India

• Enroll in a poetry writing workshop at NYU

• Get a full-sleeve tattoo

• Take some time to join up with a Brooklyn non-profit to organize workshops for disadvantaged teen girls. These workshops would teach local girls how to turn their natural social media fluency into a promotional tool, a networking outlet and a marketable skill. Eventually, in this hypothetical utopia, I'd then take a few of the more interested girls and partner them with creative non-profit organizations, neighborhood art spaces, and Brooklyn-based businesses invested in the immediate community, giving the young women key in-the-field experience and exposure to new community role models and giving the local organizations some additional social media marketing guidance and manpower. The ultimate goal would be to found and direct my own spin-off non-profit that would do this on a much larger scale in communities throughout Brooklyn, teaming up with a brand sponsor like Palm (as their Smartphones would be a natural tie-in and brand loyalty is strongly increased when brands adopt clear, positive social causes) and create collateral spin-off materials (inside-look blogs, video podcasts, etc.) that would raise funds, increase awareness and inspire similar start-up organizations nationwide. Yes.

My bellybutton thanks you for your time, and it hopes you enjoyed basking in its sunshine.

Lotus Eaters, Navel Gazers

Self-discovery rocks.

I recently registered for a dating site - not because I'm looking to date, oddly enough, but because it operates on a very cool model that I wanted to check out - sort of the crowd-sourcing of online personals. Basically, when you sign up, you say YES or NO to about 10 hypothetical dates. You also answer a few most basic questions (i.e. Do you smoke? Do you drink? Are you a lady?) along with about 3 questions regarding who you're looking for (Gender? Age? Religion?). Then you propose an ideal date (i.e. "Bake vegan cupcakes and play kazoo to the animals in the Bronx Zoo," "Eat lotuses and stare at our navels," or whatever) and when you'd like to do it ("June 4th," "this week," "whenever") and how much correspondence you'd prefer before the actual date (i.e. a few phone calls, a text, nothing but an RSVP email).

Then, based on your basic preferences from those early YES or NO date scenarios, you're sent some other person's date suggestion to reject outright or explore further. If you choose to explore it further, you get their contact info and, shotgun fired, you're off.

I like this idea a lot - the idea of actually seeking out someone with shared interests in the most practical sense. So I'll see what happens... But the reason I bring all this up is not to make you think I need to get out more. Nope. I bring this up because something interesting happened to me when I was filling out the text box for "Your ideal date would be..."

What interesting thing happened, you ask?

I had no idea what to write. I had no idea what I would enjoy, and (being the ever-dogged hedonist even in the face of all these new and healthy choices) I figured this befuddlement must reflect a lack of self-awareness.

Who am I? I'm not sure. I'm finding out. I have a ways to go. But dating sites world-wide be warned: I'm working on it.

Oh, and as for the death imagery in the last post, well, the story continues to unfold....

The Here and Now

I'm kind of liking the pace of things right now - which must mean one thing: change is comin' round.

I'm not being snide or negative. I'm not belting out "Ironic" with three dopplegangers in a mid-sized compact car. I'm not even bringing out my twelve stone tablets of Murphy's Law. But I have noticed that when things start to feel settled, the still air is growing charged with electrons.

Call me batsh*t crazy, but I have noticed some signs lately - little grace notes from the universe that seem to reflect and presage what's happening around me. Normally this is great benign reflection fodder. Today, though, it seemed the world was repeatedly cautioning me about death.

In snippets of overhead conversation, chance page openings, friendly confidences, and daytime tv topics, death has come up again and again this morning and afternoon. I don't feel I'm channeling it. I'm certainly not introducing it as a conversation topic. But still, every hour or so, BOOM, there it is: some unsolicited mention of death.

Maybe I really am batsh*t crazy.

Now, don't get me wrong; I don't think the universe is warning me about literal death (knock knock knocking on heaven's wood door). However, I do I think I'm being warned of metaphorical death. Non-literal death. Current status quo death.

A change is coming; I can feel it.

I will keep you posted.

On God, Obama & My Bottom

Last night at a meeting, a woman spoke about "left-handed gifts" from the universe. For her, the most recent gift was losing her job, because it gave her the time she needed to focus on physical and emotional recovery from a pretty bad health crisis.

I've been thinking a bit about this. "Left-handed gifts." Now is not the worst time for me to be semi-employed. I can pay my rent (thank the heavens and knock on wood) and I suddenly have the time to explore the city, pay attention to my own mental tangles, make new friends, and take on passion projects.

However, I sometimes wish these "left-handed gifts" included health care. I've scheduled my first uninsured teeth cleaning for Monday and it's running me a good $160. This is a vast improvement over the first estimate (which included charting and x-rays) of $500. Still, neither is exactly a $25 co-pay.

At the end of the day, I am grateful to be able to afford this, even if it's more than I'd like. I'm grateful to be whining about preventative care and not unavoidable surgery (incredible amount of heaven-thanking and wood-knocking here). But all this gives me pause, too.

I cannot imagine being uninsured and living a risky life. The chances I took when I knew I had insurance to cover (and mend) my behind were ridiculous. Such risky behavior would be just plain insane should I exhibit it now that I'm insurance-less. Yikes.

Would universal health care put me back on the wide and wobbly road towards mayhem, that garden path of beast and grape? Doubtful.

But am I grateful I have a much stronger hold on my mindless self-destruction now that I'm uninsured? You bet my super-safely-padded bottom I am.

Vegan Oreos & Sleepytime Tea for all!

The Permanent Press Cycle

http://poppytalk.blogspot.com/2008/06/laundry-room-art.html

Hmm. Fell off the face of the blog-earth there for a minute. Maybe it was that article? Anywho, to make a long laundry list short, here are my thoughts on the last post:

• This is a terrifying time to be an employee in a threatened industry (or really in any industry) because you have no leveraging power. I've been a fan on unions for a while now, and you can see, in troubled times, how much more important they are. A good re-read of sentimental socialist lit like The Grapes of Wrath never hurt no one.
• I am so delighted to be my own boss right now. Sure, it can be terrifying, but when I remember some of the conversation I overheard when at a larger agency - and some of the stories I hear from industry friends now - I thank my lucky stars I can pay the rent working in my PJs.
• Marketing Daily has far too many niche editions. It's too bad they are all so damn interesting. I can't believe that one woman is behind the bulk of them. Yowzers. And hats off.

Ho Hum

Nothing too much to report here - just your average Monday. 

A recent article in the NY Times, Keeping the Plates Spinning by Michael Winerip, did grab my attention, though... I'll share why tomorrow, but here are a few choice bits:

IN February 2007, Nina Lentini became the editor of Marketing Daily, a five-day-a week online trade newsletter that covers the advertising and marketing industries.

...In 18 months, Ms. Lentini went from editing one daily newsletter to still editing that one, as well as the 10 weeklies that generated new ad revenue at no extra cost to her company. Of course, there was a cost: her free time. “It’s, ‘How many plates can I keep going?’ ” she said. “You’re giddy with hysteria.”...“I understand everybody works like this now,” Ms. Lentini said. “I don’t feel I have mean bosses. I like my bosses — people care about each other at this company. This is just the new reality.”

That’s the problem for boomers: They remember the old reality...“I worked 10 to 7,” she recalled. “We took long lunches, they were nice days. When you went home, that was the end of it, you didn’t think about work. Didn’t worry about it. You had another separate life that didn’t include work. I don’t think young people could imagine it today. You got two or three weeks’ vacation — real vacation. Sick leave. We never worked on weekends.” 

...Ms. Lentini does not beat herself up over these things. “We’re doing the best we can with the resources we have,” she said. But like a lot of us, she worries for journalism’s future. “I wonder, when the economy improves and everyone has more money, do we go back to the way it was? Or are they going to say: ‘Why hire more people? You did it yourself.’ That’s what I’d say if I were the boss.

My Granny Squares

Is it wrong to be so excited about a Friday night in? I am nearly giddy with the thought. I'm going to watch the office, drink tea, and finish crocheting a blanket I started over five years ago. If that is Old Biddy Depressing, well, hell yeah I'll take it.

Am I growing up, growing old, or just growing different? So many things have changed in the past two years. So many things have changed in the past one. It's enough to tucker any girl out.

No wonder this blanket, this DVD, this cup of tea look so good...

Happy Lent

Yesterday was Ash Wednesday - and today is Day 39 of my new lifestyle. 

Interesting the way timing works, every now and then...

Marshy Sawgrass

A new game was invented on the trip to the Everglades. This game was not actually played aloud, or, honestly, even suggested, but it was still invented. Here's how it goes:

First, you get in a rented cherry-red Chrysler. Then you drive from Fort Lauderdale forever and ever to a tiny old fisherman village founded in the 1820s. Then you don't sleep very much and you spend many minutes plotting stealthy pajama-clad runs to the shared bathrooms after midnight because the air travel turned your ankles into innertubes and your bladder to a pea. But you have a very good time and dream about pirate musicals and wake up early and eat only french fries all day long because Floridians do not value the vegan lifestyle unless it means you eat fried seafood.

Fried seafood is, in fact, vegan in any and all costal states south of our nation's capitol.

But this is not the game. This is the preamble that allows the game to really start. The game really starts when you eat your breakfast french fries, pile back into the cherry-red Chrysler, head over to Shark Valley, and start reading the road signs.

The name of the game is: Fictional Archetype or Indigenous Species?

Round one: Marshy Sawgrass

Round two: Skunk Ape

Round three: Cotton Mouth

Yes - these are all technically the latter (indigenous species) but can you imagine the plot lines these names could propel?

"The Sheriff walked into the bar. The music stopped. The cards dropped. But the showgirl's leg stayed lifted high, petticoat pulled back, in mid-air. Across the sawdust floor, the dark stetson hid a face crosshatched with lies. Marshy Sawgrass. The Sheriff walked toward the black hat, straight into a cloud of penny whiskey and smoke."

And who ever said there's nothing to do in the Everglades??

Before the Everglades

What a day of self-doubt. Yipes. But I will get through it and then forget it was this pervasive. Circle of something something.

Tomorrow I leave for Florida to tour the Everglades with Dad. I've never been, and I hope it's the kind of thing we can just breeze into. I don't have a ton of pre-planning energy in me right now, so let's all just keep our fingers crossed.

I was rejected from University of Wisconsin - Madison this morning. That didn't feel great. Then again, I didn't expect to get in everywhere. Just somewhere would be nice. Again - more finger crossing please.

Also, a lot of mad women are trying to burn down my attic. This is a metaphor, thank goodness, but it still feels vitally threatening. I'm keeping it to a dull smolder, but reconciling the past with the present is making me want to install extinguishers on every floor. There is more than one way to feel smoke coming out of one's ears.

Thank goodness for therapy, weekends, my family, and the wild wilderness ahead.

Palm Amish

I just got my first smart-phone and, hot damn, am I confused. I almost snapped a chunk off of it trying to figure out where to put the charger; it keeps doing the mariachi shake everytime I get a Facebook message; it lists everyone I have ever sent a press release to in my contacts (this is sheer divine payback for sloppy publicity tricks, I know it); it keeps blinking little lights of bewilderment every time I give it yet another fey misguided swipe.

In other words, I think this is the begining of a beautiful friendship.

Snow Day

Snow snow snow. It's nearing tundra level out there. I do not want to leave this apartment - and I don't think I will.

Hurray for self-employment.

Consider My Kidneys

Interesting day today - and I'm feeling grateful for my current situation. I'm able to support myself working freelance, which is amazing and, at times, nearly unbelievable. I'm able to maintain sobriety, which is amazing and, at times, wholly unbelievable. I'm able to work for a cause I believe in and look ahead to a future I'm actually very excited for. Hopefully all will continue to be sunshine and lollipops.

I was just on the phone with a colleague who was explaining why he can't take effective cold medicine even though he's sick: it's because he donated his kidney to his father, and his body can't process most antibiotics or anti-histamines now that it's gone. After the donation and transplant, his father got cancer and his body rejected the kidney. The father is now in and out of the hospital, and my co-worker, the son, is floored by the flu.

But - here's the kicker - this co-worker has the best attitude in the world.

I've been told you have to take life on life's terms. Not that you have to accept everything horrible, but that, at a certain point, you want to take the measure of a moment and see what you can do. Sometimes the best you can do is breathe and continue.

A woman I once met said she was so sick of "cussin and fussin" at the universe. I don't think blanket tolerance is the answer to the world's many injustices, but neither is internalizing struggle. Hating a situation doesn't change it. Action sometimes can, depending on the situation. But sometimes, like with the kidney, serenity and support supply world's more good than "cussin and fussin" ever could.

Today I nearly had a tantrum when my Gmail froze and my browser wouldn't Force Quit. I was about ready to throw my poor iBook across the room... speaking of an internalized struggle not helping anything.

But then the Gmail started working again and I realized I have both my kidneys. I have my father. I can take Benadryl and, even better, I currently don't need to. I hear so many stories of how bad things can get - but I get to hear these stories from people who have finally found peace. That's an amazing thing. And so I am grateful.

Good and Lazy

I am having a serious couch potato moment. Maybe it's because I've already been to the gym, done a day's work, seen the Tim Burton exhibit at MOMA, shopped at three bodegas (9 times), and eaten a heaping tablespoon of creamy peanut butter. Yes, maybe that is partly to do with it. But somehow, the only real reason I come up with is: I AM LAZY & NO GOOD.

Why are we all so damn hard on ourselves?

The more time I spend sober, the more aware I am of the constant stream of self-criticism I harbor. Christ. In some ways, the critique's consistency should be freeing - I don't think the inner-chatter could possibly escalate, so I have nothing more to fear. I could commit a million crimes and the volume level would be the same - Spinal Tap's deafening 11.

Breathe.

Things are good. I am good. Life is good. The elliptical machine, Tim Burton, creamy peanut butter, and bodegas are good. Couch potato is good. Even lazy can be good.

Good?

Good.

TGI...

How funny Fridays are when you are not employed full-time. Even if I were still drinking, I don't think I would relish the five pm drink the same way as when I was slogging through sixty-hour weeks. This is not a bad thing.

We're all waiting for the snow to start here in New York. I've received countless e-newsletters playing with the threat of upcoming precipitation. Antici-precipitation. I have decent provisions, should it come to that, but really, my NY1 forecast predicted four inches. I think we'll live.

(I say this now...)

My college's alumni magazine arrived this morning. I was expecting, as I opened it, to end up feeling deflated, left-in-the-dust, outshone. While there's a whole lot of merit and reward in those pages, however, I don't feel envy. People seem to be making their way, but I didn't find any miracle-suckers in there. No one wheezed on the juice of good fortune.

I'm finally feeling pro-anthropic. I like people. I like being a person. We are all just trying to figure it out, and, if nothing else, we have that in common. We are working on it. And that it is us. And that is just fine with me. I feel this is the moment we all hold hands and sing things to the soon-to-fall snowflakes. Dah-who dar-aze... Who knew New York would be my Whoville today?

Hey Universe

Today has been a good day. I asked the universe for it, and the universe delivered. Awesome. I will certainly try that more often.

www.explodingdog.com

Today I tackled the gym, the therapist, the raw vegan burrito store, my non-profit work, old invoices, transcript requests, my checking account and Best Buy - and it all worked out. I even got a brand new Canon Elph to show for it, so yes, today has been a good day.

I feel my thoughts aren't incredibly deep lately. I've been going a day at a time, trusting the world to figure itself out and then, hopefully, to take me aside and let me in on the secret. I'm not struggling right this second, which is an odd feeling. I suppose it'd be a good feeling, but it's so damn odd I can't even give it a thumbs up or down yet.

Today is the 25th day I've survived without eating animals or drinking alcohol. I so would have thought I'd be dead by this point, but no. Instead, my skin's a little clearer, I feel a hell of a lot better, and I'm probably a whole heaping dose happier than I was before. Interesting.

My life so revolved around eating and drinking - and not even in a I'm-Drunk-Every-Night kind of way, but more in the "Hi, I'm Cait, I'm a bar reviewer" kind of way. Now that's not who I am. So who am I?

I don't know.

Apparently someone who likes surviving gym, therapy, raw vegan burritos, non-profit work, invoices, transcripts, checking accounts and Best Buy. But obviously more than that too...

But what?

Mmmm & Zzzz

So tired & sated from delicious toothsome hockey puck chickpea cutlet dinner, courtesy of Uncle Mike n' Auntie MolMol.

Any more meaningful updates will just have to wait.

Februaries

This is not the life I expected. Februaries are always that way, though.

A year ago this month, I had given notice at my madcap Publicity-Events-Branding-AnythingUnderTheSun job to try working for a big national consumer-corporate PR firm. It was incredibly stressful, those final two weeks, working for a woman who was one of my closest friends, both of us knowing full-well that, after three years of insane workplace intimacy, I would be leaving in a handful of days.

Two years ago this month, I was about to take off for Mexico with my boyfriend at the time. The relationship was rocky, in large part because I continually put my job and my relationship up against each other. I pretended acting promiscuous was a job requirement. It wasn't. I thought being employed and in a relationship freed me up from any honest self-inquiry. Oh well.

Three years ago this month, I broke up with my first New York boyfriend. I was a year into my PR career and it was going pretty well. He had been a freelancer at the tiny boutique firm. He had always wondered when I would quit. Who knew it would take another two years?

Four years ago this month, I had just quit at my job at ABC News Radio. I was living in Williamsburg and I had nothing much to do but interview at temp agencies, hear how vastly overqualified I was (Really? With just 6 months work experience ever?), and wait for the plane ticket home. I had no idea what I was doing with myself. I waited to hear back from MFA programs and watched too much Oprah.

Five years ago this month, I was a senior in college. I was working on a series of form poems about location, and another chapbook about the orbits we throw ourselves into when we fall in and out of love. I was curious what I would do after May, but not afraid. Life would fall into place, I just knew it.

And it does. It did. It falls into place again and again just like those little orbits I was writing about five years ago. The planets shift and we realign, but soon we're settled back into our circles. Until the next time.

This is not the life I expected.

And there is nothing wrong with that.

Wonder

Back to the daily blogging routine - and damn happy about it too! My stint as a temp freelancer for the For-Profit Man has come to a close, at least for the moment, as so I'll finally have a little time back to do all the things I wanted to do when I left my full-time job in the first place. Happy day!

Thank goodness, too, as I've been reading Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott and I don't think I've ever felt such an urge to just put pen to paper and go. She suggests starting small and irrelevant, writing about school lunches and what they meant. Why not? You can tell a life by a lunch box's progression - from bread and butter sandwiches to mayo-heavy tunafish on Thin Sandwich Wonderbread to Boar's Head Roast Beef to a stint of cold Gelson's Chicken Fingers or Cajun Shrimp Pasta to a gourmet piling of mixed greens, turkey breast, avocado, tomato, cream cheese and dijon on rosemary bread. Each of those has a reason and reflect a chapter of childhood. And the foodie in me is sated.

So here's to more time for stories; semi-employment certainly has its perks.

Two Thousand Ten

Happy New Year!

Already I've been pitched into things head first. It's okay. This is temporary. I can do this. Just focus on that one thing right in front of me. Do that. Then the next thing. Do that.

My mind has been functioning in sentence fractures all week. It's only Tuesday. Insert expletive here.

If I don't get into grad school, I will have some serious thinking to do. I'll go be a surrogate parent in California. I'll start teaching English in China. I'll tend bar in a seedy Western town and change my name to Blossom Jones.

I will marry up.

But this cannot be my every year. Even if it happens to be my this year. It's okay. This is temporary. I can do this. Just focus on that one thing right in front of me. Do that. Then the next thing. Do that.