Many, Many Questions

She looked at the time, which was peering at her in muted gray block letters in her car’s dashboard. She was sure she wouldn’t make it. Once again, traffic, her arch nemesis, had reared its ugly head, like it did every morning. Her thoughts were scattered, and as she looked ahead, into the endless sea of cars, she gave up.

“I’ll get there, when I get there,” she sighed.

While she moved an inch, she thought of all the places she’d rather be. In bed perhaps, having a long, drawn out breakfast. At her typewriter, which she hadn’t used in at least a year. The ribbon didn’t work, but that didn’t matter. Replacing it was just another opportunity to be anywhere but where she was headed to.

At least the weather was partially on her side, she thought, as she couldn’t see the emblazoned Los Angeles sun anywhere to be found. The gray skies, the rain, the gloominess of it all…it felt like home to her.  Maybe it reflected how she felt on the inside, but she didn’t think that was necessarily a bad thing.

The traffic began to clear up, and although she breathed a sigh of relief, she was secretly wishing it would have gotten so bad, and it would have made her so frustrated, that she would have just turned around and gone home to bury her face in her pillow and unmade bed.

As she thought about driving, she came to the realization that her life was spent in small, confined spaces, which she likened to boxes. She was in a box in her room. She left that box to go to her portable box, her car. After a while there, she reached another box, her cubicle, where she spent hours working and subsequently dreaming that she wasn’t working. Not working in the real sense of the word, anyway. She wanted to work, but the passion was missing, a common ingredient that’s lacking from the workforce. And there she was, one box in a million on an endless pavement of cement travelling to another box.

She was surprised how quickly she managed to reach her exit. Still late, but only by minutes. The streets were empty, with people at least. The cars however, as usual, were plenty. She rounded the corner, skimmed past a car that was blocking both lanes, and made it to the parking structure in one smooth swoop. The elevator ride was only 30 seconds, but it felt like hours. Her thoughts had started racing back and forth again, and she was afraid that the neurons firing inside would somehow find their way to manifest themselves on the outside, by lack of coordination, an unusual flushed face, or some other embarrassing ailment.

When she made it to the meeting room, her nerves calmed down. Another stressful situation dodged, she thought. She took out her notebook, lifted the pen tucked behind her ear and began writing anything just to take her mind off the situation. Most days she would just trace her name over and over again on paper, trying to see how different one signature would be from the next. As people shuffled in, and the presentation began, she tried to concentrate. Goals, priorities, performance, acquisitions. The words circled around her head and popped like bubbles.

Her efforts to keep her thoughts on what was contained in the room remained fruitless. It was then, that when she looked up across the table, outside that she couldn’t believe her eyes. It wasn’t anything she hadn’t seen before. In fact, it was a common site in this part of town, but this time, it looked so inviting, so new, so refreshing.

It was sparkling, beckoning her to escape her box. Stretched out for miles, the blue glistening waves of the ocean, against the palm trees felt like an escape. She might have been exagerrating, but she felt like she was in prison. In a office supply, grey, computer-meeting room prison.

She looked away and back down to her notebook. Furiously jotting, the racing thoughts came back. One minute she knew what she wanted out of life, the next minute, she felt like nothing made sense. Except boxes. Boxes surrounded her. And as she sat there, she knew that she would figure it out. The question was when?

Synonyms Work Just Fine

I have a strange habit of referring to objects, places and ideas by off-key synonyms, because at that moment, I can’t quite think of the word I’m searching for. Although it makes for hilarious conversation, I’m not sure why I do it, at all. The problem started in high school when I referred to a couple Math and English books as my “study books.” It progressed from there. I called Christmas “Santa’s Day” once and the restaurant “Applebees” sincerely became “Johnny Appleseeds.” Scale became “Weight measurer” and so on. I don’t know where this verbal ADHD originated from, but it looks like it’s contagious.

me: I saw “The Class” the other day for a screening. You’d really like it. [proceeds to send link to trailer]

him: Oooo interesting. This reminds me of that Michelle Pfeiffer movie with the students.

me: Which one?

him: With Coolio, remember?

him: Teacher in the Hood!

me: you mean “DANGEROUS MINDS?!”

Teacher in the Hood. After I recovered from my fit of laughter, I took comfort in the fact this wasn’t the first time he had synonym-ized words. Payless had turned into “Penny Savers” and Old Navy had turned into “Navy Seal” among countless others that I can’t recall.  It could have been at this point that I might have realized that we where meant to be.

Every Morning is Monday Morning

Getting ready in the mornings is never pleasant for me. Ever. If the problem isn’t the fact that I cannot bear the thought of getting out from under my soft, warm and ever so accommodating bed, it’s that I take one look in the mirror and immediately know it’s going to be a bad day because no amount of makeup or fake peppy facial expressions can help me. These are probably the days that I feel I’m at about 10 percent.

That’s how I judge how I feel on a given day, with percentages. For example, if I’m feeling pretty great, which means my clothes, my look and my mind are in order, I’d say I’m at 90 percent. If I’m feeling horrid and nothing is going well for me, including the mountain of a pimple that just showed up on my chin’s doorstep, then I probably feel about -5 percent. The most interesting part is, that even if I start out at a good percentage, say 75, by the end of the day, I’m almost in single digit numbers. That’s quite discouraging. I can honestly say that I’ve never felt 100 percent, EVER. But then again, who has? On second thought, I’m sure there are people who have. I hate them.

After I gauge a percentage, I go about my business of turning the kettle on, decided what to wear all the while running from the bathroom to my room multiple times. During this tedious process, Henry the Maltese is ever so vigilantly by my side and will follow me at all costs, no matter where I go and no matter how many times I go there.

When I get to the bathroom, he’ll duck himself in there with me and then, because no one is home and I need to make light of the fact that I feel like DEATH, I strike up a conversation with him.

“No Henry, that’s an illegal behavior,” I politely tell him when he sticks his head in the trash can.

While in my room, I ask him about my wardrobe. “What should I wear? What do you think? If you had to pick something for me what would it be? Oh c’mon, don’t be shy. Pick something!”

While in the kitchen, I discuss life. “If you had a choice between staying home and going to work, which would you choose?”

When he wanders off out of sight, I miss him. “Can you come back now? I have to leave soon and I want to see as much of you as possible. Why don’t you ever make yourself heard?”

When I have to leave, I reassure him that it will be ok. “I have to go now Henry. I’ll be back home soon, I promise. You just stay put, ok? I’ll be back I swear.”

And as I shut the door, I hear him barking in the distance, as if to say, “Why do you leave every morning?”

I ask myself the same thing.

Not Interested

Listen up everyone. I’m running on empty here. I mean that. I’m so tired I can feel my eyeballs in their sockets. Have you ever had that feeling? Where you’re so tired, you can FEEL your eyes? It’s not pleasant at all, but that’s what I’m going through right now.

I’ve got so much on my plate, a lot of it I hate, and the other half I love, but don’t have enough time to devote to and I feel I’m nearing a crosswords. There is so much to think about that my mind feels like it’s been permanently diagnosed with ADHD. I can’t concentrate on one thought. But enough about the future. Let’s talk about the present.

I have about four movie reviews to write, a press junket to transcribe, a screening to go to tomorrow and traffic school to deal with. I’m losing my mind. I’m finding it so difficult to write my reviews. I’ve always found them difficult. I’ll read reviews by Manohla Dargis in the New York Times, or the Village Voice or the Los Angeles Times and think, from what dark hole in your mind did you pull that out of? And how come I’m not seeing it? Is there something deeper and more profound I’m not getting, when I go to these screenings? I just don’t know anymore. I find it so hard to accurately express my feelings about films. The only films I’m able to dissect just as good as a NY Times movie critic are the ones I’m totally invested in and am passionate about. So I’m having quite a difficult time right now with myself and my movie reviews. I’m second guessing myself and I don’t like it.

Mostly the fatigue is getting to me. I just want to take a sabbatical and go off into the woods of Utah or something with a typewriter and enough tea to last me for a couple months and just write. Write to my heart’s content, without worrying about stress, and a full-time job, and traffic and life and graduate school. I’m becoming slightly disillusioned with the journalistic career opportunities this city has to offer. I do not want to be a movie critic. I don’t want to write about the movies and stars everyone is talking about. I want to write about the woman who turned a hobby into a full-fledged business and got herself our of debt, or the hole-in-the-wall restaurant that serves the best food in town, or the day laborer on the street who is working so hard to make ends meet for his family. I want to write about the pet organization that helps displaced dogs and cats find homes after natural disasters, I want to write about the injustices committed against journalists in Middle Eastern countries, I want to write about the professor who is doing studies on how video games in nursing homes are impacting lives. These are where the stories are, these are the people that matter, not directors, not producers and certainly not actors.

I’m just so tired of it all.

Reflections and Results

There’s a topic I’ve been avoiding here for weeks. Partly because I didn’t want to think about it, but mostly because…yea it was totally because I did not want to think about it, at all. I suppose now that a couple weeks have passed, I am ready to discuss the Dreaded Test of Higher Education, otherwise known as the GRE. My experience with it was very manic. On the one hand, I panicked about it to the point that I was physically manifesting my anxieties. On the other hand, I went in to take it with a very nonchalant attitude about the whole thing. My results from the test? Very manic.

I woke up extremely early on that day, made my way down to the test center and waited. I waited and waited until the doors opened, we were all let in and handed forms to fill out. There weren’t many people there, although many of them were already irritating me, like this one woman named Maria, who had brought in her Starbucks mochafrappabullshit drink (her name was scribbled on her drink) and was taking her sweet time to not only sip it, but sip it very loudly. I filled out my form quickly, stuffed my belongings into the provided locker and went to answer a couple questions as fast as I could to get away from Maria Full of Sips.

The entire process was very clinical and frightening at the same time. After about three and a half hours, I had finally finished the test, and as a parting gift, the GRE decided it was going to give me a headache that would last all afternoon. I walked out of there a bit dazed and confused and a bit like I had been through academia hell.

While I was paying for parking, the man at the booth inquired about my test. I told him I didn’t think I had done very well.

“That’s ok! You always have another chance. You can come back and take it again and you’ll do great next time!” he said encouragingly.

I left the test site knowing I hadn’t done so well. I don’t know why I expected to do great, seeing as to I hadn’t really studied.

I pushed the test to the back of mind more or less, until I came home last Thursday and received the results by mail. Impatiently, I tore open the envelope and saw what I already knew.

I had done “OK” on the verbal and horrible on the math portion. But what I haven’t been able to stop thinking about, and what has got me to really hate and question the mere idea of a test to get into graduate school, is the fact that I scored near PERFECT on the analytical writing section. The analytical writing section is the portion of the test where you choose two questions and write essays explaining your stance with supporting evidence, complete sentences, deep thought and great grammar and writing skills.

Yes, that’s right. I scored half a point away from a perfect store. Regardless of that half of a point, I was in the top tier section of the scale and had done better than 90 percent of others who completed that section.

I had just taken a $140 test that had made it clear to me (at least academically) that I was a good writer. Perhaps a great writer.

I wasn’t confident enough in my scores as a whole to send it to any school and was pretty depressed about the fact that I didn’t do my best, the sheer realization that a test for graduate school had determined that my analytical writing capabilities were incredibly high was enough for me.

I’m still feeling very disillusioned about this whole graduate school business. The GRE to me, was completely unnecessary and discouraging and in my opinion, it should have absolutely NO bearing on the acceptance of a student to continue their education. NONE whatsoever. It’s a pointless exam with pointless results and does not showcase a student’s talent, just their test taking skills ( at least the multiple choice sections anyway).

I was lucky enough to discover after the test that one of the schools on the top of my list that I wanted to attend doesn’t even require the GRE. But now, the problem isn’t the GRE anymore, it’s money. I don’t know how I can even begin to pay for one year of education that will grant me a Master’s degree, but will cost the same as a luxury vehicle. Sure, there’s scholarships and financial aides and loans, but none of those are a guarantee, and with the way the financial atmosphere is, getting a loan might be near impossible.

I imagine there are so many people all over this country and the world, wondering the same thing I am: how in the world are they going to pay for their education?

The short answer is: I don’t know.

And I really don’t know, but I’m not stopping. I’ll find a way. If worse comes to worst, my choice of school might have to change. But like I said before, the school doesn’t make you, YOU make you. The end.

Why Can’t Weekends be Four Days Instead of Two?

Do you see this little monster above? The one my boyfriend won for me while demonstrating his extraordinary basketball skills at the carnival section of California Adventure? I feel like this monster today, frazzled, all over the place and bug-eyed. I spent last night cleaning and taking care of Henry. It seems like the Diarrhea Night of Hell decided to revisit us. That was probably my fault because I didn’t wait long enough before I fed him again. I am hoping we don’t get a “Part 3″ tonight. I’ve had such a busy day. Between the fires burning all over Southern California and Los Angeles, and no sleep the entire night, plus a screening I had to see and a meeting I had to attend, I am just about ready to fall and die. I am so burned out, that I just want to sleep for an entire week to recover. Emails, messages, projects and work will have to wait. I am bidding you adieu, but only for today. Goodnight.

Daily Routines: Make it Stop

I know I’m not the first by any means to declare that there should more hours in the day. In fact, I’m probably the last. But oh how I need those hours. Just a few more. Maybe three or four more. I need them desperately. You see, there is so much I want to do and need to do and not enough time to do them in. The only thing that gets accomplished on a day to day basis is driving to work, working and driving back home, followed by a rapid draining of energy and me lying on the couch, tired and listless, even before I get a chance to do just one thing I had marked on my mental to-do list. Before I know it, it’s 12:30 a.m., and just as my energy is starting to come back, I have to go to sleep so that I have enough strength to repeat this routine all over again.

I’m not a fan of routines. That’s probably the reason why I’m so passionate about journalism, a profession that is the antithesis to following the same mundane and redundant lines of life on a daily basis. This is also why I’m not as organized as I’d like to be, which is just a nice way of calling myself messy. Yes, this is why. This is why I promised myself as a teenager that I never want to be employed anywhere that reminds me of “Office Space,” this is why cubicles scare me and make me really uncomfortable, even though I’m in one all day, this is why I never wear the same thing to bed twice in a row. This is why you’ll hear the faint sound of crunching and find Henry eating at 11:30 p.m. at night. My disdain for routines obviously translates well and is probably horrible for dog training.

Routine, derived from French, means “usual course of action, beaten path” as defined by the “Online Etymology Dictionary” by Douglas Harper.

People love routines. Even if they don’t, they’re necessary to function in life, or so we’re told. Exercise routines, morning routines, routines for children, routine medical procedures, a comedian’s routine. They’re everywhere, and it’s been made pretty clear that without them you fail.

Think about the time you spent in school. All those years, while you might have learned something about history, science, music and English, were really meant to instill routines in you, so that you’re prepared for your potential career. The way you’re required to be in class at a certain time, the seating arrangements, the grades you receive, the bell ringing to let you know class is over. Sure, school might be about acquiring knowledge, but it’s also mostly about acquiring routines that are meant to prove useful later in life.

Anyway, I’m not sure where exactly I was going with this schpeel, other than to say that I’m tired of the routines in my life that are keeping me from doing things I’m passionate about. I’m tired of the wasted hours on the road and my inability to pursue projects that have been lingering in the back of my mind. I’m tired of being tired. I hate complaining about not having enough time. I wrote a quote here a while back by H. Jackson Brown, Jr. that went “Don’t say you don’t have enough time. You have exactly the same number of hours per day that were given to Helen Keller, Pasteur, Michaelangelo, Mother Teresa, Leonardo da Vinci, Thomas Jefferson, and Albert Einstein.”

It’s so true. I shouldn’t say I don’t have enough time. If the aforementioned few aspired to greatness, I can too, with the same amount of time as they had. Then again, Mother Teresa, Hellen Keller or da Vinci never experienced the wrath of Los Angeles traffic in the mornings and evenings. That quote should be revised to “Don’t say you don’t have enough time, unless you spend more than two hours in traffic. In that case, I give you free reign to complain.”

Thanks H. Jackson Brown, Jr.

The White Hair

In less than a month, I will turn 24-years-old. Although I’ve had dozens of conversations with friends and family about the idea of aging, complete with whining, reminising and my dad proudly declaring that he was simply “50 plus tax,” it didn’t hit me until a couple months ago that I was aging too.

Aging is like one of those things you’re oblivious and immune to as a kid, sort of like paying bills, having a job and taking care of children. You just never think it’s going to happen to you.

Well it did. OH, it did.

Things started changing a couple months ago. At first, I noticed I could barely, just barely survive on six hours of sleep, when in high school and college, I managed most days on about four. Then, I kept getting the headaches that I only heard about in migraine medicine commercials. You know, the ones with a middle-aged woman grasping her temples in pain, while she sits in her cozy little kitchen with a cup of coffee. I didn’t think much of it and attributed it to the stress of work and traffic.

But two days ago, on a rather peculiar Monday morning, I woke up and headed straight to the bathroom, the first stop on my routine. After washing my face, I looked up at myself in the mirror and gasped in horror at what I had seen.

A white hair.

A white hair was growing on my head, more specifically on the right side of my head, blending with a sea of golden brown strands. A little white hair was staring back at me, making its presence clear, proclaiming to me that it wasn’t going anywhere, and pretty soon, his uncle, sister, brother and cousins were moving in too.

This one little hair had ruined me. This is what they mean, when they say the power of one, I thought.

As I panicked and feverishly searched around my hair as if I was Nancy Drew trying to find more clues, I saw flashes of my entire head covered in salt and pepper gray, with crows feet near my eyes, skin spots on my hands and the need for a hearing aid.

My panic (and flashes) went away when I calmed down after a search for more white strands turned up fruitless. For the next two days, I religiously checked for more white hairs before going about my business, and I suspect I’ll continue this routine until I realize that aging is inevitable and that there’s no point in me fighting it.  I suppose at the moment of the Great White Hair Discovery of 2008, I finally understood why women were so afraid of aging. I always thought that when my turn would come, I would respond quite nonchalantly and accept what was happening. I thought it was all so endearing. I remembered beautiful older women I admired, like Helen Mirren and Sigourney Weaver and how they completely embraced their age and looked just absolutely stunning, moreso now than before.

But subconsciously, I had reacted like any other typical woman, as if it was programmed within me to have a spaz attack about the lack of melanin in one hair strand. In time, I assume it wont be a big deal and the thought of white hair will be just that: a thought. However, for now, all I have to say is:

Thank God for hair dye.

On Our Domestic Future

Me: When do you think we can have a house of our own?

Him: I’ve never bought one before. What do you do?

Me: I have no idea.

Him: How much are they?

Me: a lot I guess. Many hundreds of thousands of dollars.

Him: oh well, I guess we can’t get one then. We don’t have many hundreds of thousands.

Me: How can we get some?

Him: Our parents?

Me: I don’t think so.

Him: Lottery?

Me: We could, but the probability is not in our favor. What else?

Him: Working?

Me: That could work!

Him: Why are you scaring me?

Me: Don’t get scared. I’d just like to own a house with you.

Him: I know you would. Because you like me a lot, and you know that any house I live in, would be the best. You know that I know how to not only decorate a house, but also to KEEP IT CLEAN.

me (in my mind): I’ve finally come to the following conclusion: I don’t like to clean and I’m not ashamed to admit it, so there.

Together, Our Dreams Can Be One

I have much to say, but I’m waiting. Waiting and hoping. Tomorrow, things are going to change. I can feel it. And it’s going to be wonderful.