Background Noise

the fairy tale that so isn't

Eli and I have been married for ten years this week. I don’t know what to say about it that I haven’t already said except that looking back to ten years ago, I think we were both very naïve when we got married. You can’t know the things you’ll go through together when you’re twenty-three and making promises to love each other forever no matter what. But since that day our vows have been tested many many times.

We were such idiots when we got married. We’d had a perfect life together up to that point. Things were very simple. We hung out in bars with our friends at night, we went to the movies together whenever we felt like it, and we did the adult things too like work and make dinner and shop for toilet paper.  I remember that it was so exciting to come home each night and know that no one had to leave. We became each others’ family and it wasn’t hard at all.

We didn’t know when we got married that we’d end up moving to an isolated town in the Midwest for five years where one of us would suffer an unholy case of culture shock and never get over it. We didn’t know that we both suck with money and because of that we’d suffer significant financial stress over the years. We didn’t know that one of us would almost die one night very quickly and the other would have to stand by helplessly just watching and hoping the doctors knew what they were doing. We didn’t know that starting a family would mean going through a rollercoaster of emotions, from mourning to celebration to aftershock tremors so powerful that they would threaten everything.

In a way I feel responsible for everything difficult that we’ve had to go through in our life together. I’ve said this many times, that I am not an easy person to live with. Life with me is never calm and predictable. One day you’re living fine and you’ve established a home for yourself and begun to set down roots, and then suddenly you’re in a truck driving yourself and all of your belongings across the country with a risky itinerary and very strict time frame for establishing a new life. Two months to secure a good job and buy a house in one of the most expensive real estate markets in the country. This is how I do things.

Eli is easygoing. If it were up to him there would be no grand upheavals. And sometimes I wonder if he realized back then what being married to me would involve. And what I’m about to say comes from my own insecurities, because Eli has never given me a reason to doubt his love and commitment. But I never thought we’d be together this long. Every time something would happen that was difficult or painful, I expected him to leave or check out and go in search of something easier. I spent the first few years of our marriage a little checked out myself. Subconsciously thinking about what I would do in case it didn’t work out with us because I figured if I prepared myself I wouldn’t be hurt. Apparently it takes my heart one time to learn a lesson and the lesson I learned, through various experiences before I met Eli, was that you should not trust people, especially when they say they will love you forever. Each time someone disappointed me by being human I lived inside the lyrics of that hateful Alanis Morissette song where she talks about the words people say and how they become etched in your heart until they aren’t true anymore and you find yourself wondering how forever suddenly became or until I don’t love you anymore.

I say that I’m not a romantic, but that doesn’t mean I don’t fantasize about someone loving me enough that he would rather die than live in the world without me.  I am realistic enough to know that such fairytale bullshit does not exist. Especially in the real world where things aren’t always easy and bad shit happens all the time and even if you make it through there is never happily ever after because even if you miraculously don’t hurt each other constantly or have a horrible relationship that chisels away at your spirit a little bit each day, one of you is still going to eventually die.

Okay wait. That just got fucked up at the end there and I forgot what I was doing. I guess I am trying to say that am thankful this week that at twenty-three I had the sense (or probably blind luck) to pick someone to navigate this anti-fairytale with me who is really fucking great. Even ten years later. 

where is the muppet of common sense?

Eli and I stalked the movie store for three days trying to rent The Hills Have Eyes. So when we finally got our hands on a copy this afternoon, we planned our night around watching it. Unfortunately, the movie contains something I cannot deal with since having a baby of my own and that is anything that comes between a mother and her ability to protect her child. You don’t mess with the babies, man.

There was a part, right before I turned it off, where one of the mutants holds a gun up to the baby’s face and the baby reaches out and touches the barrel like it’s a cool, shiny new toy. It reminds me so much of the baby things Joey does because he doesn’t know how the world works yet. Like today when he held the nozzle of the hose directly in front of his face and then pressed the sprayer while looking directly into it, surprising himself by shooting a blast of water straight into his eyes and up his nose.

We watched The Chronicles of Narnia last weekend and I was fully expecting to be taken to a dream world of magic, and instead was taken to a dream world of suck. Maybe it’s just me and I’ve been ruined by Lord of the Rings and now I expect every fantasy movie to be smart and for adults. Chronicles of Narnia definitely is not for adults because they barely explain the back story on anything and it’s full of that Davey and Goliath shoving lessons down your throat bullshit I was sick of by the time I was seven.

Even Sesame Street is edgier than Narnia. Though I have to admit, sometimes I get very frustrated with Sesame Street. Like the other day when Luis wanted to cook juevos rancheros for Maria and Big Bird was trying to help him out by going to the market and buying three tomatoes and one hot pepper. It turned into this huge ordeal, first because Big Bird has like no short-term memory and couldn’t remember his list of TWO ITEMS, and then when he got sidetracked by Maria after purchasing his produce and had to hide the bag under his wing while he helped her fix a toaster. And the whole time he’s fretting like an asshole about simple shit that he should totally be able to work out on his own. First off, just buy what you think Luis wants and then run back to the store if it’s wrong, and second, just because Maria asks for your help doesn’t mean you have to give it to her. Dude, make up an excuse. Tell her you have to make a phone call, take a shit, anything and get the fuck out of there. Sometimes Sesame Street is so tedious with this shit and I sit there on the couch watching it and rewriting the scripts in my head to how I think they should be. Like what was Luis thinking sending the biggest and brightest colored muppet on the entire street out to do an undercover mission? Send Grover or one of the other smaller muppets like Zowie. Or how about not using muppets as your servants at all and maybe getting off your ass and doing your shopping your own damn self. And you’ve lived on Sesame Street long enough to know that muppets are not very bright so if you want to surprise your wife with a nice dinner, you shouldn’t even involve them because chances are they will fuck it up and the surprise will be ruined. You’re  better off just distracting them with some sticks or letter shapes or a pile of shiny fucking rocks while you handle the dinner preparations yourself.

I suppose if I wrote the scripts the action on Sesame Street would be limited to like two minutes of adults doing things with common sense and there would be no muppets anywhere except maybe Oscar who would throw things every once in a while or scream obscenities from his can to keep it interesting. But then I'd have to fill the rest of the hour with dancing letters and kids would probably hate it.

I’m taking my summer TV angst out on Wes Craven, a beloved classic novel and The Children’s Television Workshop and it’s really not their fault. I just don’t have anything good to watch.

essential baby supplies: diapers, desitin, wipes...electrical tape?

A couple Eli and I are friends with have a daughter who is six weeks younger than Joey. We swap stories about what our toddlers are up to and it seems like they’re always up to the same stuff. They started solids around the same time, started walking around the same time, and horrify us at the same time with their creative baby and toddler tricks.

Joey’s newest trick is unsnapping his pajamas at night and removing his diaper. The first time it happened I went in to check on him before going to bed and I saw a mysterious lump on the floor next to the nightlight. A closer look revealed that it was a used diaper and I figured Eli probably changed him earlier in the evening and forgot to get rid of the old diaper. But then I looked into the crib and saw Joey lying there on his belly, fast asleep with his tiny naked bum sticking up in the air.

He did his trick again last night but we were lucky again because we discovered what he’d done before he had a chance to pee his bed. I don’t know why it never occurred to me that peeing the bed is not the worst thing that could happen, as our friends found out last night when their daughter pulled the diaper removal trick on them.

They woke up at 3am to screams coming from their daughter’s room. When they went in to check on her they discovered that she had removed her diaper in the night and discovered a fantastic surprise inside. Her own poop! Which she then used as a delightful medium for painting. Everything in the crib was covered in shit, including the child, who’d decorated herself like a warrior smearing poo all over her face and head and chest and feet. We assume she probably got a taste of her special diaper paint and that’s what set off the screaming.

I can’t imagine walking into a shitstorm like that in the middle of the night. And so because we have no desire to press our luck, we have made the decision to secure Joey’s diaper with electrical tape during the night from now on.

waiting on fedex

This morning I am trapped in my house waiting for FedEx to deliver a package. The package will contain the top secret instructions for my interview tomorrow at the prestigious pharmaceutical company that has been ignoring my resume for the past two years.

I send them my resume at least twice a month, and every time I send it they acknowledge me by sending a form-letter postcard in the mail. I now have enough postcards to create a large wall collage that I’m thinking about calling “Rejection”.

I’ve only ever had two job-related FedEx deliveries in my life. Both contained job offers along with lengthy contracts and confidentiality agreements for me to sign and return before starting employment. This is the first time I’ll be receiving a package before I’ve even been interviewed in person. Does FedEx leave the package if you’re not home to accept it? Maybe they do but I’m not sure so I am forcing myself to stay put until they arrive. I have to go to this interview tomorrow so I can’t take any chances.

I assume the package will contain the details about where I’m supposed to go and a schedule of who I will be talking to. And also a general idea of how many hours it will take.

I’m trying not to get my hopes up about this. The timing is almost too perfect. I recently made the risky move of quitting my job and rejecting a new job offer both in the same week (who fucking does that?), convinced that my energies will be better spent trying to find gainful employment and not working for peanuts at my current job, dashing home at lunch to return calls and squeeze in phone interviews. And if I’m not going to work for crap money at my current job, then I definitely cannot accept a new job that pays only slightly higher than crap.

I have the feeling this could all blow up in my face, this overconfidence I have that I am worth more than what people have been offering me lately. I hope that this blind confidence pays off and I don’t find myself in the land of regret two months from now, desperately trying to convince the manager at McDonald’s to hire me on to run the drive-thru for eight bucks an hour plus free Happy Meals.

==

Update: 2:39pm

Since this is work related, I thought I'd show you an interesting job description I came across during my search through the state health and human services website. I've highlighted the interesting parts in bite me red.

Laboratory Scientist

Special Qualifications:  Must be able to rotate among testing areas according to workload needs.  Visual deficiencies must not interfere with ability to perform laboratory analyses.  Physical condition must allow for the administration of vaccines and/or necessary diagnostics tests.  Superior manual dexterity and coordination required.  Must be willing and able to handle unpleasant and/or hazardous specimens such as feces, sputum, blood, vomitus, urine, animal heads, and samples known to contain infectious organisms and/or toxic chemicals such as carcinogens.  Must be willing to receive Hepatitis B vaccine.

Want to guess what the state pays someone to handle infectious animal heads and known carcinogens? Between $12.40 and $13.90 an hour. Things may be different where you live, but out here in the good ol' Northeast, that's enough to survive on if you live in a studio apartment (outside of Boston, of course) with no car, no debt and a willingness to survive on Ramen and tap water.

memories from a sleep deprived mind

I can’t believe I’m up before MTV Video Wake-up. I just finished working on an article that I left hanging last night so I could go to sleep and I ended up waking up at 2am to finish it. And now that it’s done I don’t feel like going back to bed. So I’m sitting here on the couch with some coffee and VH-1 trying to decide what to do with myself before Joey wakes up for the day.

Hm. What to talk about? Okay, I will tell you how I horrified my babysitter last week. Twice.

My dad takes care of Joey two days each week while I work. And so he gets an up-close look at the inner workings of my home and sees the gritty side of things we usually hide from outsiders. Like that our ice cube tray makes ice in the shape of penises. An unfortunate discovery my dad made when Joey caught his fingers in the toy box last Friday and he had to go into the freezer to find some ice to put on his hand. The strange thing is that he didn’t say anything to me about my perverto ice because if he had I could’ve explained to him that it was left over from a party we had recently and that’s not how we usually do ice here. But he never mentioned the ice and I only realized what happened when I saw the empty plastic tray of penis molds sitting on the counter that night.

Another morning last week, maybe it was the same day of the ice, my dad arrived at my house early and walked in to see me and Joey sitting on the couch enjoying a Red Hot Chili Peppers concert on Tivo. It was a show where they all had mohawks and when he walked in they were jumping around the stage, singing about sex acts and promiscuity and Joey was staring at the television in awe. From the look my dad gave me I wasn’t sure Joey would still be here when I got home from work. I thought he might try to intervene on Joey’s behalf and deliver him to a more righteous life. A life void of perversion with a good wholesome family who would never give their child a sippy cup full of water with ice penises floating around inside to keep it cool.

To understand the upset I cause my dad, and have caused my dad every day of my life by being me, you have to know that he is kind of a prude. I don’t know if that’s the right word, but my dad has difficulty with sexuality, obscenity, behavior that is not proper and waste. It’s hard to explain without examples. My dad is very laid back until you assault his sense of decency, so to understand this better, here are some things I have done in the past to get my dad’s temper fired up: Say the word “fart” at the dinner table, throw a piece of steak fat from my plate across the kitchen and into the sink during a meal, try to leave the house in torn up jeans virtually every day of 1989, throw the almost empty bread bag into the trash when it still contained the perfectly good heel piece, refuse to drink milk that is approaching the expiration date, attempt to answer my mom’s questions about where I spent the night, sit on the couch with my boyfriend under a blanket to watch a movie, listen to music that contains foul language (mostly during my phase with Public Enemy and Eazy E). I recall more than once being told that my behavior was not “ladylike” when I was young. As though my actions were tarnishing the royal family name and the citizens of our great land would look upon us unfavorably and ask for our crowns back.

Okay and there is where I stopped because Eli woke up for work and came downstairs. I’m sure I would’ve gone on telling you about my strange, cool dad and all his funny quirks. Like how when we were older and too quick to get smacked, my brother and I would have contests at the dinner table trying to come up with any act sick enough to get my dad to slam his fork down and storm out of the room. I liked to burp and my brother would chew with his mouth open or put fries in his nose. Once my mom even got in on the fun accidentally when she burped a small burp into her napkin and my brother heard it and drew attention to it as though she had just blown her nose into the salad. “OH MY GOD DAD, Did you hear that? MA JUST BURPED LIKE A TRUCKER!” This cracked my mom up, so I had to think of something quickly to try and save her, “Shut up loser, it’s not like she farted!”

And that was the last straw.

Dad slammed his fork down and yelled, “ENOUGH!!! You kids make me sick!” and stormed out of the room. We repeated this kind of behavior so many times that my dad finally refused to come to the dinner table at all and began taking his meals on a TV tray in the living room while mumbling something about thosedamnkids.

So my dad. I never write about my dad here because it’s my mom who sucks all my parent writing momentum away. My dad is cool and quirky and even though he laughs at my stories and brags about me to other people, I think he might secretly hate my guts for all the uncomfortable shit he had to put up with in raising me. Especially with all the screaming that happened in the house between me and my mother. Our home was not peaceful when I was a teenager. As a testament to how bad it was, my brother does little skits for people who didn’t know us back then. Like his wife and Eli. The skits are hysterical but it’s probably just a coping mechanism he developed as a victim to the daily verbal unrest.

My brother plays all roles, using different voices for each person (and a slight bit of exaggeration for comedic effect):

Jaeme: I fucking hate you, I hope you die, why are you such a BITCH????

Mom: Get in your room, I don’t want to look at you. Did you HEAR ME FILTH MOUTH? GET IN YOUR ROOM I DON’T WANT TO LOOK AT YOU

Jaeme (stomping up the stairs muttering curses. At the top of the stairs she turns around to deliver her closing remark): I H A A A A A A T E Y O O O O U !!!!

(the door slams)

Silence

And then

HUGE CRASH as Jaeme begins throwing her furniture around in the bedroom to release her rage.

Mom (to my dad): Go up there and make sure she’s not drinking her nail polish remover.

End scene.

My brother usually tells these stories to highlight the emotional abuse he suffered peripherally as a result of the constant fighting between me and my mom. And sometimes he has to be gently reminded to suck it up buttercup because no one feels sorry for you.

There you go. This entry is what happens when I space out and forget that I’m not just thinking about things but my hands are on the keyboard and I’m typing them too. I feel like I just let you sit in on one of my therapy appointments.

betrayed by my community iPod

I’ve been pretty tense lately and the knots in my neck muscles are a testament to the level of stress I’ve achieved in my body. I’ve been on the computer and the phone for too many hours each day and in between that I’ve been working and trying not to kill the people around me who are getting in the way of my focus.

There’s a radio station here called MikeFM that plays everything. There are no DJs, just music. It’s sort of like what you would get if you got an iPod and loaded it with every song ever made. I heard the theme song to the Golden Girls one day and sometimes they play things like Frank Sinatra and Weezer back to back.

I like the station for its schizophrenic approach to music, so I usually have it on in the background when I’m in the house. But today it is taunting me because as I sit here writing ass-sucking emails to the HR managers of every biotech company within thirty miles of my house, the music is taking on the theme of my desperation. While I was reading the email from the company that tried to negotiate my salary by offering me the salary I want only if I would be willing to give up my benefits to include all earned time, the Go-Gos sang excitedly in the background about Vacation…ALL I EVER WANTED! While trying to compose an email proposing a flexible work schedule, Dolly Parton mocked me with her lamentations about Workin’ Nine To Five and how it AINT NO WAY TO MAKE A LIVIN! And as I searched monster.com and tried to accept that my flexibility may have to include Saturday work, Loverboy tenderly assaulted me with his pop rant on WORKIN FOR THE WEEKEND.

The only thing worse could be anything by Celine Dion and if that happens I am closing my computer and going to the beach.

 

clearly I'm delusional

I am extremely successful at landing jobs. Every interview I’ve ever had has led to a job offer. Well, except for that internal position that one time where I was found unfit for the position after details of my personal life were considered in the process. But that was political and a fucked up situation to begin with so I don’t usually count it.

But what I am wholly unsuccessful at is getting what I want in terms of salary. I’ve only ever had one job in my life where I’ve been satisfied with the salary. Probably because I only recently realized that I need to negotiate before accepting the job and not try to get more money once I was in the position. But since I’ve finished school and added some good experience to my resume, I’m less eager to accept a low salary. And so I’ve started negotiating for money.

My first negotiation went very well. I asked for 5 grand more, and I got 2k added to my salary plus a $2000 sign-on bonus. I consider that a successful negotiation. In my current job the initial offer was so low that I just rejected it straight out and so it was a delightful surprise when they came back with just enough money and schedule flexibility to make me unable to reject the position. After all, I was sitting here with no salary for a few months and at that point anything remotely reasonable sounded good.

But now that I’m ready to go back to work full-time, I can't afford to fuck around anymore. The money is very important. And what I’m looking for is not an insurance company CEO’s ransom, simply enough money to justify spending 40 hours a week out of the house, the ability to pay for child care while I’m at work and the gas to get there without breaking even at the end of the month. But how do you explain this to an employer without flipping your shit and screaming at them I AM LOOKING FOR A WAY TO PAY BILLS, NOT A HOBBY, SO QUIT DICKING ME AROUND!!!

I am currently in negotiation for yet another job and it’s fucking wearing me down. What is two dollars an hour to a huge corporation that will likely bank thousands of dollars a year from my work? I just don’t fucking get what it is about me that makes people comfortable offering me such shit money. Why am I having feelings of corporate rage toward a company I don’t even work for?

It has to be something about me or something I’m doing that’s making this always happen. I know a little about how this stuff works. I know that if you consistently don’t get interviews, you should fix your resume. I know that if you consistently get interviews but never get the positions, you should work on your interview skills and maybe your appearance. But what do you fix when you get interviews and offers of employment but the money is consistently a joke?

I’ve already considered that maybe I want too much. Maybe I think I’m worth more than I truly am. But after some research and math I’ve rejected that possibility because it doesn’t make sense. And while I’m at it, why do you need an engineering degree to work for a fucking toy company??? I can understand the requirement at Lego, but Fisher Price? Why isn’t vision enough? And why are all the interesting companies in Califuckingfornia? What, Boston’s not good enough for your precious toy development think tanks? Is creative genius just a west coast thang? Are we too bitter and based in reality out here for you? I guarantee the Bratz dolls were conceived by an east coaster. And probably GI Joe too!

The real question though is why am I wasting valuable time with this when I could be devising a crime plan for securing a decent salary?

daycare

As you may have guessed from a couple of entries back where I told you how Eli called me at work and reminded me that I went to college, I’ve been thinking about going back to work full-time. I don’t have a job yet, but I just know that something will eventually happen and so I’m trying to prepare. Most of the preparation is taking place in my head, where I’m trying to convince myself that it’s okay. Joey is ready to not be with me all the time and he could even maybe benefit from a structured daycare program.

This is different from the last time when I was having a fucking coronary at the thought of leaving my helpless baby in someone else’s care. Someone who would probably spend the day letting other children pound on his body with megablocks or forget to change his diaper or not cuddle him tightly and kiss his head like he is used to while he has his bottles. But that was ages ago and he’s not a helpless baby anymore. And also mama’s not quite as crazy and riddled with anxiety these days. I know he will be fine.

And so to test myself I made an appointment to tour a daycare with Eli. Our appointment was in the afternoon and I felt horrible all day. Every time I looked at Joey smiling and playing and running up to give me slimy kisses all day, I wanted to staple him to my body so we’d never be apart again. And I know this is unreasonable thinking, I mean, how would I button a lab coat? But I know eventually he will grow up and be his own person and I will have to let him so I might as well start now. See, even typing that my brain is having convulsions like WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT HE IS ONLY NINETEEN MONTHS OLD AND PRACTICALLY STILL A BABY! HOLD HIM CLOSE AND NEVER LET GOOOOO!

I can see this heading into scary mama’s boy territory, and I need to get my head straight before I fuck the kid up. Ahem.

So we arrived at the daycare for our informational tour and as we were walking up to the UNLOCKED door, a huge old man with a beer gut in a Harley tee shirt got out of a car and came strolling up the stairs behind us. After we all walked in (through the UNLOCKED door), he went over to a desk in the infant room and sat down. “Oh, hello, I’m Mr. Kelly” he said to us, which meant that he wasn’t a parent. He was the owner’s husband. And he has an office in the infant room.

The director came over and we introduced ourselves. I said, “Hi I’m Jaeme” and Eli said, “Hi I’m Eli” and before we could introduce Joey she turned away from us as though he wasn’t there and started shuffling through some papers.

We didn’t even need to see the fax machine in the middle of the playroom, the television mounted to the wall, the fifteen children on the playground being supervised by one old lady, the depressing and dark toddler room that is the size of Joey’s bedroom and holds a class of ten children. We didn’t need to see the menu which could’ve doubled as a guide to achieving type II diabetes (Monday-meatball subs and chips. Tuesday- Chicken nuggets and fries. Wednesday- peanut butter and jelly with chips) and mostly we didn’t need to listen to the director talk to us for thirty minutes in a dull voice while completely avoiding any interaction with our child. Maybe she needs cash before she takes an interest.

The only thing missing was video games.

Now, I’m not against TV or junk food or juice, but I don’t hold myself to the same standards I have for a daycare. Because I am a parent, not a business. Same goes for free care. My dad gave Joey so many cookies that we had to start hiding them and he lets him drink the leftover syrup from canned fruit. And on the two days each week that he’s at my house watching Joey, the TV is on constantly. But my dad babysits for free. He could let Joey eat sugar straight from the bag with a spoon if he wanted and I’d probably let it go because for every cringeworthy thing he does during his days with Joey, he does ten other wonderful things. Like teaching Joey how to toast. All you have to do is hold your coffee mug out and say, “Let’s toast!” and the child raises his sippy cup and clinks it against your coffee mug in celebration. I wouldn’t have thought to teach him something cool like that. He also taught him to roll his sleeves up before diving into a jelly sandwich, how to wash his hands by standing on a chair at the sink and our favorite, how to grab his chest and scream “ME!” You know, because sometimes we forget that he is he.  But if I am paying you two hundred dollars a week, you don’t get to be lazy about anything and you have to follow my rules even if you think they are stupid.

When I told her that we don’t want Joey to drink juice she looked at me as though I’d told her he’s on a strict macrobiotic diet. A shadow of disbelief crossed her face as if to say, “What kind of baby doesn’t drink juice?” And the answer to that if she would’ve asked is healthy, pudgy babies who sweat a lot and drink water all day long and don’t need the extra calories and sugar. And if that’s not enough explanation, the pediatrician says juice is not good for little kids and he is certified by the AMERICAN MEDICAL ASSOCIATION to have that opinion.

We finished up and got back into the car and we were quiet for a while as we drove away. We talked about where we should go for dinner and then Eli said, “We’re not leaving him there ever.” And I agreed because I know she would give him no love. And lots of juice.

But things have changed a little bit this week because I had a job interview and it went really well. The pay is great, the commute is good, and they would help finance my graduate school. And now there is an urgency to this daycare fiasco. Though you’d never know it by the way I’m just sitting here drinking coffee and having a leisurely morning.

Denial.

links I love

Sometimes I wonder why people do this. Why do we write about our lives on the internet and share stories and experiences for strangers to read and comment on or empathize with. I’ve never been able to figure it out exactly so I keep writing my stuff and reading other people’s stuff and I try not to think about how weird it all is.

I have a list of links of my favorite journals written by other people over there on the side. I read a lot of things on the internet, but my list of links are the sites I visit daily, compulsively, and they’re the ones I wonder about if I’m away from my computer for any length of time. I’ve never exchanged a word with some of the people in my links, others I know a little bit, and then there are the ones I’ve known for years. So since I can’t figure out why I write this page, I will tell you why I read the others.

Because I say so! I love Jodi. She’s a mysterious girl and she’s perfected the art of keeping an interesting blog while maintaining her privacy. She’ll always tell you what she’s eating for lunch or the abstract things she’s thinking about but she keeps from vomiting up the personal details of her life in every entry. I bet you didn’t know she’s a zookeeper and acrobat. That’s how good Jodi is. She’s got this blogging thing down to a science and even if you’ve read every entry in her extensive archive, you really never know quite what that girl is up to.

Coffee Grind. Kathy is a cool mom and she gives good mom advice. But I liked her even before I cared about that stuff. She has a good sense of humor, is funny, and makes beautiful jewelry. Also, she has issues with her own mother and that makes me feel like we have some kind of common bond.

Crazy Aunt Purl. Sometimes it’s about knitting, but mostly it’s not. I don’t remember how I found this one, but the best thing about Laurie is she is interesting and funny and updates a lot. She has a great spirit and I think that’s why I started reading her journal. I admire people who can go through a horrible experience and resist the temptation of throwing a pity party on their blog about it. Laurie handles her pain the right way—through drink and telling hilarious stories.

Fleamail. I’ve tried to cool it about my obsessive love for the Red Hot Chili Peppers but this is one fact about me that has not changed in so many years that it has become like my genetic code. I have blonde hair, green eyes and I love the red hot chili peppers. If someday people form a cult around them like they’ve done with other bands in the past, I will probably be the leader and run away from my life to live on the road and follow the band as the lead pepperhead. I LOVE THEM. I’ve loved them since I was a teenager and so being able to read a journal written by one of them makes me feel like we’re friends. I am not a crazy stalker, I just like to know what they’re up to. And I wish Anthony Kiedis would start a journal. Though I would hate if he kept it on myspace.

Fly in the Honey. She’s a teacher and she’s funny and I like her style. I don’t know her beyond what she writes about in her journal but that’s good enough for me.

House in Progress. I have a secret addiction to home renovation. I love doing new things to my house and I get a voyeuristic thrill from seeing inside other people’s homes. Reading this journal comes from the same compulsion in my brain that makes me walk the neighborhood at dusk so I can look into my neighbors windows. I’m not a peeping Tom, I’m just as happy with an empty house as one filled with people because I’m in it for the décor. I like to see what people do with their walls, lighting and woodwork and sometimes it gives me ideas for things to do with my own living space. I also obsessively check out houses on newenglandmoves.com because they have pictures of the insides as well as the outsides of the houses on the market. And I've spent enough time there to tell ya, new englanders love their hideous flowered wallpaper.

Isobel Divine. Issy and I met when we were writing on a site called OpenDiary many years ago (I think it was '98, but I’ve lost track of my old opendiary files so I’m not sure) We’ve spent hours on ICQ and though nether of us have the time for that anymore, we still keep in touch through email. I’ve lost touch with everyone from OpenDiary except for Isobel. She is my oldest online friend.

Loobylu. I like Claire because she is in Australia and her weather is opposite mine. It’s a trip when she talks about summertime at Christmas and the blazing heat during a blizzard. She is an artist and draws beautiful pictures. Her blog is like candy.

McSweeney’s. I can’t sum this one up. Just that every time I go there I get stuck for hours reading stuff and marveling at how brilliant the site is. If you’ve ever been there then you know. Web crack.

Mimi Smartypants. I don’t know Mimi but I wish I did. When I’m feeling like the world is full of ordinary days and ordinary people talking about ordinary things I read Mimi and remember that there are some seriously weird cats out there. From her writing you know Mimi is smart, and she views the world through a lens of absurdity. If we all had a map to represent the nerve tracts in our brains, most would look like a roadway system in the Midwest, with order and logic and grids. Mimi’s would look like a spirograph gone terrifically out of control.

Rhapsodie. I found Joshua’s journal through SleepDirt Dan. They are brothers but their writing styles are quite different. Joshua is a hothead like me, and his journal is full of lovely rants about the stupidity in the world. He has road rage and corporate frustration and I can usually relate to what he throws down.

Sleep Dirt. I’ve been reading Dan’s journal for a long time. I like Dan for many of the same reasons I like Mimi. It makes me happy to know that there are people in the world who think about things the way that he does. Dan alternates between writing clear, humorous entries about the moments in his day to writing beautiful cryptic prose about how he’s feeling about the things going on in his life. I wish Dan was my neighbor because I could imagine calling him up at midnight when I can’t sleep to come over and watch cartoons. And he seems like the kind of person who would be fun in a debate about ordinary things like the pros and cons of sugar-ball-shaped versus flake-based breakfast cereals and the merits of different fruits taking into consideration taste, shape, color and how easily they rot.  Then again, maybe because I’ve been reading his journal for so long I’ve made him into a cartoon character in my mind. My perfect imaginary friend. Cartoon Dan enjoys competitive skee ball, dive-bar karaoke and watching movies about gay cowboys simply because it’s art. Real Dan is probably much cooler than Cartoon Dan

Chaos Theory. Sherry is the only mom journal I read regularly because sometimes mom journals aggravate me. She has two little girls and she writes about the experience of being a mom with so much grace that she makes me want to be a better mom. I don’t think I’ve ever read her journal and disagreed with something she’s written about parenting. Which is strange because that rarely happens when it comes to parenting. The only thing I can think of not to like about her is that she watches Canadian Idol.

giving it away for free

Eli called me at work this morning. Eli never calls me at work, so when the secretary came to get me I immediately thought someone was dead. But when I picked up the phone I heard one sentence: “Quit your job. NOW!”

So of course never being one to blindly follow directions, I asked him why I should do that. And he said that we were already out of money in our ATM account from my check, which I got two days ago. Unfortunately, he got the news at the pump while trying to fill up. He was furious beyond words. He yelled a lot about my forty thousand dollar education and how it wasn’t right that I was busting my ass at work and we still have no money and they’re not paying me to be there so just walk out now. I tried to stay calm, since I was on the phone at the front desk where all the patients wait for their appointments. I pretended that we were having a different conversation and I made polite remarks as he spewed his anger down the phone line. “THIS IS FUCKING RIDICULOUS, JAEME! I could work a couple hours of overtime and you could stop working there and we’d be fine. FUCK THAT PLACE!” Mmm, I see where you’re coming from. “Tell them to get fucked.” Hmm, I’m pretty sure I’m not going to do that. “You worked TWO WHOLE WEEKS so we could buy groceries. Just groceries and your whole check is gone!” That’s a very good point, but I have to go now. I’m in the middle of working with someone.

So I hung up and went back to my patient who was being very good by continuing to do crunches in my absence, and I think she was up somewhere around 200 because I forgot to tell her to stop at 30 before I ran away to my phone call.

I finished up with the avid cruncher and then I went to my boss’ office to talk to him. I didn’t tell him I’m quitting, I told him instead that Eli had an accident at work (his head fucking exploded) and I had to leave for the day. And then I came home and transferred money into the ATM account so Eli could get enough gas to come home from work. Then I stewed for the rest of the afternoon trying to figure out what to do about this situation.

I called Eli once I got home and he apologized for being crazy on the phone. I apologized for wasting my time in a job that doesn’t pay me enough to keep us from bouncing checks every other week. And then I got on the internet and sent resumes to everywhere I could think of and considered selling some blood.

Eli’s right though. This is bullshit, this vacation I’ve been taking for the past few months. It was necessary at one time, but now it’s not and I need to get my ass back into the rat race. Especially since the cost of being crazy has gone up recently and between my meds and my doctor’s visits my mental health tab is running me about $100 a month. Add the ridiculous price of gas and our cost of living has gone up significantly since last year at this time. But all afternoon I’ve been feeling really horrible when I think about everything that would mean. I’ve been on the verge of this for a while, and we even went to look at a daycare last week just so that when something eventually comes through we have a plan. I’ll tell you about that miserable experience next time, but for now I will let my resume do its work out there in the world while I play Farm with Joey. I’m necessary to the game. I'm the rooster.