another day another dollar

It is unbelievable how exhausted I am today. I (unintentionally) woke up at 7AM both Saturday and Sunday and was productive on so many levels, but I was able to catch up on some sleep with a few cat naps here and there. I worked out and cleaned our apartment almost obsessively, did all of the laundry and then finished up the weekend by spending way too much money at the grocery store (again).


I miss my friends. I miss the drunken/irresponsible nights that came so often with college and with living in Columbia. My rush to graduate and find a full time “big girl” job is now baffling to me and I often wish I would have taken the Van Wilder approach instead. Though I enjoy my job and the paychecks that come with, this whole full time, wake up at 7AM every morning is not as relieving as I think I though it would be. And while I love our new apartment that provides the convenience of living in walking distance to almost everything, I still miss Columbia and the drink specials that allowed you to spend only 10 dollars on drinks for the entire evening, and then 10 more at the beloved Diner that just happened to be owned by an old man that adored my grandmother that passed away when I was still in high school.


On another note, I went to the city market with Mamaw and Mom yesterday. None of us thought it would be open and were just driving by to make sure, but to our surprise there were tables full of fresh fruits and vegetables and little shops that offered some of the most darling merchandise. I wish I could put into words the love that I have for my mom and for Mamaw, but over the years I’ve come to realize that that will probably never be possible.


On another another note, Brandon and I watched “The Lovely Bones” this weekend. I expected it to suck, but (of course) I had to watch it just to see my Marky Mark for a good couple of hours. While the movie was much better than I thought it would be, it made me realize how badly I don’t want to die. After finishing the movie I thought about that in depth, about what would happen to my body, my mind, and my soul once I’m dead. After a while I began to feel sick to my stomach and decided that since I’ll never know for sure until that time comes, I might as well not worry over it at this point. Still, it is disheartening when one realizes that they are not invincible, and that anything could happen to any of us at any moment. Something anyone who has ever lost or almost lost a loved one can understand.


Well, I apologize for the jumpiness of this entry, and also for the morbidity—but cut me some slack, it’s Monday. And we all hate Mondays.

bomb diggity

My client came in today and told me that her 10-year-old grand son thinks I am THE BOMB! Tell me that is not awesome. I'm the bomb, YO!

Happy Friday!

rain rain go away

I chewed my pinky nail too short today. It hurts. Stupid habit. I started because I wanted to be like my sister. That was nothing new...

Rain. And I wanted to ride my bicycle today.

I want to explore.

So many things, places, avenues, ideas.

Sputnik

"Don't pointless things have a place, too, in this far-from-perfect world? Remove everything pointless from an imperfect life, and it'd lose even its imperfection."

-Sputnik Sweetheart, Haruki Murakami

This is a quote from one of my three favorite books, all written by the same author. I think everyone should read his books. He helps you appreciate good literature, the diversity in relationships, and true, real, deep, and sometimes disturbing love. I'm re-reading this one and I am even more appreciative than before.

I have some of the strangest memories of my childhood up until high school. Most are random, mediocre things that happened, pointlessly remembered. I remember sitting at the dinner table with mom and dad (before they were divorced) and having steak and crinkle-cut French fries. No vegetable (weird for my mom, right?). I had dad cut the steak (something he did for me up until probably a couple years ago—through if I asked him to cut my steak for me tomorrow, he would without the slightest bit of hesitation). I shoved the steak chunks to one side and the fries to the other, and filled the middle of the plate with as much ketchup the place would allow. And that is it (though I’m sure mom told me not to use so much ketchup). I don’t know why I remember those small, insignificant details. I suppose that is just it though—this memory seems so pointless, but it has a place in my past, my life, my brain, and for some reason it has always felt special.

Maybe just because I never forgot.

L O S T

I love L O S T. I love you if you watch L O S T. I love you if you can appreciate how freaking good L O S T is. I love Tuesdays!

Nothing to post other than that, really. I need some inspiration. . .

every other day, every other day of the week is fine

How is it already Monday?

o. m. g.

I truly wish everyone could have heard the conversation I just had with someone. Actually, conversation doesn't feel like the correct description of what just happened. It was more so me just sitting there, dumbfounded, while a lady talked...and talked...and talked...and talked about how everyone is in cahoots against her. For an hour and a half. Straight. Even if I could attempt to explain half of the things she said to me, nothing I could say would do it justice.





TGIF. Seriously.

you know i like my chicken fried

"I am not a piece chicken, you cannot have a bite of this!"

-My Client (this wasn't directed toward me, by the way)

This is most definitely, without a doubt, going to be what I say to anyone that ever hits on me/flirts with me (including Brandon).

spirit in the sky

I heard a story today from a lesbian couple that broke my heart.

The conversation began in an odd way and I did not expect it to lead into the story that was ultimately told. I was visiting a client in her home. This is a routine part of the process that occurs with every client, after a month or so being in their new homes I visit them just to “check in” and see how things are going. This particular client had company at the time, her niece and her niece’s partner. I don’t quite remember what brought up this question, but her niece asked me:

“What church do you go to?”

To be honest, I hate being asked that question. Though I’ve been a member of the same church since I was very young, I go very rarely, and two weeks ago was probably the first time I’ve gone since Christmas Eve in 2008, and Mom and I even snuck out early that night so we wouldn’t miss too much of the family Christmas Eve party (one of my absolute favorite annual events). So although I always have an answer to that dreaded “what church do you go to?” question, I cannot help but feel a twinge of guilt when I give the impression that I am an avid churchgoer. What if I said “I don’t really go to church”—what would their (and by “their” I don’t mean this couple, I mean people in general) response be? Would they judge me (even though the bible says God is the only one that can judge me)? “What church do you go to?” seems simple enough, but it is truly a personal question—I wonder how many people really want to ask “Are you a Christian?” or “Do you believe in God?”

So, this couple began telling me their story. They had been attending a church (the church’s denomination I will keep private) for two years. They were actively involved and enjoyed the services, until the pastor’s wife said they could no longer be involved in the church because they were lesbians—and homosexuals go to hell (this was after lectures and what not).

Why is it that they think the homosexuals are going to go to hell? Is it because the bible says so? Well then, why isn’t the divorced woman or the divorced man going to hell, too? Why are they allowed to be involved in the church? What about the women that gossip and speak poorly about their neighbors? Doesn’t the bible say something about them, too? I don’t ask these questions to argue against someone’s faith, or someone’s beliefs, but in the hope that someone will be able to provide answers. . .

insert catchy title here

I’ve moved twice in the past four and a half months—three times if you take into account that it took us two trips back and forth from Independence and Columbia to make the first move. Last weekend my boyfriend and I moved downtown into a nice, tall, classy building right down the street from Power and Light. Our bedroom view is of Power and Light and of the garden that sits on top of the roof of our over priced parking garage. We like to say that we’re “classy” now. We spent the three weeks before we moved looking at “classy” rugs and “classy” artwork and such, all while promising to keep it much more tidy than the last apartment that was in the basement of a house. We (or at least I) blamed our messes on the fact that we were in a tiny basement that was too difficult to keep clean with two dogs dragging shit from outside onto the tile floor (that we both absolutely hated).

A week into the move I can honestly say that it seems like we will in part succeed at keeping the place cleaner than the last one, however next month I may have to admit that we were silly to even think that. As for the classy décor, well, we are having some issues with that. Brandon has two pieces of “artwork” (in quotations because that is what he would like to call them—not me) that he insists on putting on the walls.

The first: a rectangular piece of cardboard (literally) with four colored sections—green, maroon, orange, yellow. On each section is a big black and white head of a monkey with giant headphones on.

The second: A van with a bunch of shit in it sitting on a beach. This one is in a huge, old, wooden frame. Apparently this has some sentimental value to Brandon and one of his friends. For some reason, I can probably deal with the van picture, but the monkeys—oh how I hate the monkeys! I’ve expressed my concern for the classlessness of the two pieces, and I ask for a compromise of choosing only artwork that we both like, nothing that he detests and nothing that I detest (and I so, so, so do detest the monkeys) but he insists on both pictures because, well, to put it simply: he just likes them.

So, what do I do? Do I give up the battle and place both pieces of “artwork” on the walls, or do I stand my ground (and by “stand my ground” I mean beg him to put them under the bed or back at the old apartment)? Should I just suffer through the monkey’s menacing eyes and the color scheme that will match nothing? Should I offer something (like what?) in exchange for getting rid of the pictures? Is there any sort of fair solution to this dilemma?

Dad...

I’m no genius. I don’t claim to entirely understand politics. I don’t know exactly what is being done with health care reform; I don’t know what is going to happen to the economy because of health care reform. All I know is that people call and come into my office on a daily basis needing help.

A veteran that is very, very ill. A kind, sweet man—but when he actually finds a place to live, he has difficulties paying his rent because he has to decide between paying rent and buying medicine. A mother that can’t afford to go to the doctor because she needs to buy diapers and food for her children instead.

The Kansas City Free Health Clinic serves people that have no health insurance. They have over 900 doctors and nurses and pharmacists that volunteer with them. The demand is so high that they turn away around 200 people each week.

So, those of you (Dad J) who are against the health care reform. What do you suggest? I respect your feelings and beliefs regarding the reform—but do you have any better ideas? What do we do about these people? Do we just block them out of our minds and let them fend for themselves because we are lucky enough to have a roof over our heads, three meals a day, and health insurance? Is health care a right only for those that can afford it?