Pounding Pavement

  Pounding Pavement, originally uploaded by Mema13. …life on the street. A truly difficult undertaking when regarding a young, aspiring artist and her journey into the wonderful world of adulthood. Step #1: Finding a job to pay for her art supplies. The motive is to get the girl motivated. NOT AN EASY TASK. She’s the most stubborn, hard-headed, lazy riot grrl in existence. Even though I think that it’s just part of the process, part of me just wishes I could shake her until she gives in. So here are the notable feet which represent this divine moment in every girl’s life. We all need to be pushed a little, coaxed a little. Sometimes, we need to be shoved really, really hard. But the result is always the same: confidence and excellence. I know that with this guidance, Sara will shine. But, I have to convince THE POWERS THAT BE (namely, Carlos) that this is going to come out right. He’s less-than-convinced. So yesterday, Eli, her protege and myself hiked it out. The goal: to attain multiple applications from various establishments reaching our ultimate goal…employment. It was cold. So cold out that my ears were screaming for earmuffs that I usually hate to wear. Not even my favorite striped sweater really helped me feel warm or fuzzy. Ugh! We didn’t venture far, but we managed to have more than a few laughs watching the wheels of Sara’s mind turn for the first time. After one such sitting, filling out a rather detailed application, she came up to us with her face beet-red. She concentrated so hard, her face resembled a candied apple. It brought me back to that first time, y’know? I’m sure everyone can relate to the horrors of the application process, but it made me stronger and more determined to find– and then keep–a job. Now, as she walked first trepidatiously then more surely, I felt a sincere full-circle vibe. Eli commented on that feeling, too. She laughed and recalled her first experiences pounding pavement in search of the elusive job. I know. I was with her all those years ago. I pushed and poked and prodded. You see, Eli was about as hard a sell as Sara now is. But we can all learn from those humble beginnings. Perseverance DOES pay off. Parisian Charm and A Piece of Pie: Later on, we needed a break so we stopped at a charming little eatery called: Chez Marie.  Not only did Tom Cruise stop in when he filmed “War of the Worlds” but The Village Voice named it one of the best restaurants in NJ. I enjoyed a cup o’Joe and Eli scarfed down a slice of carrot cake while Sara attacked a piece of Raspberry cake. Yummy!  If ever you’re looking for a great ambience, friendly service, and a feel like Paris (though I myself have never been), then stop on by.  Tell ‘em who sent ya.  Okay, okay.  Enough with the commercials and shameless promotions… “Vote for Pedro!”

World Peace, Hunger and the Bendy ID

This particular post came about as a result of my recent obsessive behavior.  Basically, I’m all stressed out.  So when I am feeling all tied up in knots on the inside, I start getting all hypochondriac-ey and unusually obsessed with stupid things.  I also get moody, argumentative, pensive, weird, spastic and other fun stuff.  Which brings me to the title of this post.

To add to the fun, access to my floor was stripped from me on the first.  When I went to use my building ID pass, I was DENIED.  So, needless to say, it wasn’t a good way to start off the month.  Then, the cheap plastic material they used to create my ID, began to bend over the course of the day.  Ugh!! 

Historically, it has been my custom to wander into my boss’s office in these times of stress, if for no other reason than to annoy him with my petty trifles.  Hence, my Boss responded in the way he knows how.  He made fun of me.  Hence, the title of this entry.  He always says I have a tendency to amplify life’s issues and make it ALL ABOUT ME.  I can’t argue.  I guess I am self-absorbed.  I can’t help it.  So yeah.  World Peace?  Who cares.  Hunger? I laugh in the face of hunger.  But the Bendy ID??  Now that’s important…to the Bat-cave, Robin!  Alert the media!  And while you’re at it, can you get me a sandwich?  Thanks.

Y’know life is real hard for a pimp

I haven’t written because I’ve been sick.  Sick with a cold from the seventh circle of Hell.  So I haven’t been up to posting or feeling all cool and cutesy.  Turns out life is real hard…for a pimp.  Not to compare my life to street corner hustlers or anything.  Just thought that after the Oscar upset of the century, the title would seem fitting.

Despite my better judgement, I came in to work today.  I also am bummed because it’s my last week working here and I’ll also be travelling to Chicago this week and I feel that if this cold from Hades doesn’t let up, it may prove to be all yucky and ilky for my trip.  Despite that, I’m hoping to have fun.  Whoopee. Hooray. For some reason, I was all emotional this morning.  I read Jam’s blog and got even more depressed.  I wanted to share my woeful feeling in a poem I had written, but I can’t find it.  That furthers the bum.

Maybe I should eat.  The fact that I have an appetite should account for something.  Right?  Right?

I guess it’s time to clock the ho’s.

Foiled by a Futon

Picture this: an unseasonably warm winter day which sets the stage for my moving (long past ~ thank goodness). So I’m trying to figure out how in the heck I’m going to deal with: a) a moving truck which was smaller than I expected b) a hired hand that was neither handy nor cooperative c) independently moving with little-to-no-help (See “b”).
I began trying, in vain, to move small boxes which I made the fatal mistake of overstuffing with random everyday items like pots, pans, books. Thus, the boxes wouldn’t close shut making the stacking process for the van near impossible. Not to mention that the shape of these aforementioned boxes were all sorts of weird and inconvenient. Think oblong rectangles and loose (like prepared for recycable bins). Argh!

*Note: In my defense, this was my first and (hopefully) last move for a very, very, very long time.

Okay, so I’m still attempting to over-stuff already heavy and complex trapezoidal Chinese origami-like boxes to prepare them to be further stacked, shoved, and squeezed into a mini-van. You get the picture. Not exactly smoothe sailing…
It is decided that since the small stuff was getting to be worrisome, that the bigger stuff would be saved for later on. Among the larger items? You guessed it: my bulky futon.

*Note: I was and am not a futon fan. Ever. The reason for the purchase had to deal with Sara moving in with us. We needed a place for her to sleep.

I am so glad to be able to say that out loud: I AM NOT A FUTON FAN. Being an American in America affords me that right. But onto the futon…

It arrived in the second run of our move. By then, our “helper” decided to bail, bums were offering–you heard me–BUMS were offering to help move us, which resulted in frustration for all involved. It did however give me a giggle when one of the bums kept repeating to Sara over and over: “Stay in school and get an education. I’m serious. Don’t end up like these bums here.” I don’t think he included himself in the same breath as a bum (even though that’s what he was) because he kept mentioning how he was a Vietnam Vet and all. I think all bums in Jersey City have used this excuse at least once in their lives to justify their reasons for being bums. The funny part is?! They’re still–that’s right–BUMS!!!
Trust me on this one.

I grabbed hold of the one end of the futon and Carlos had gotten a rather big and tall friend to help pick up the other end. The problem was that it was hard maneuvering it through the doorways. A split-second decision was made (which in retrospect was THE WORST DECISION EVER) to disassemble a portion of the “dang” futon to get it to fit. Well, we moved it in two pieces; ever mindful that eventually we would have to re-assemble the monster.

Later on that evening, while Sara was whining about it being late and having to get to sleep or whatever, Carlos had said that I should wait until he returned in order to assemble it. I, however, have never responded well to orders, suggestions, or the belief that I am not every woman and that it’s not all in me. This proved to be a mistake, of course. With Sara’s aid, I still could only manage getting one of the sides to fit in the base of the futon. Whenever we tried to manipulate the other side, a series of banging, pinching and pain began. After trying it out for a solid hour, I realized that I’d been bested. By a futon. Ugh.

Needless to say, Carlos had to offer his delightful help the next day. If it weren’t for his manly-man strength, I swear I don’t know what I’d do. Only I can’t ever directly admit to that and if someone presents this blog entry as evidence, I will deny, deny, deny. Hey, it’s worked for The President…

Youth is Definitely Wasted on the Young

How does one compete with youth? It’s such a sad thing how quickly the sand runs and all of a sudden you’re my age wondering if you’ve been tapped out.  

I just finished watching American Idol where one of the contestants has been (in Simon terms) “overshadowed” by younger contestants…at the age of 28. Could musicians really be considered “old hat” at such vibrantly young ages? Are you really over-the-hill by twenty? Society seems to run on basic principles. Women are supposed to be young. They are supposed to be limber, strong and maintain the body of a sixteen year old throughout their lives. With thoughts like, “She looks good for her age” it is difficult to escape the stigma of being anything but younger. Despite her inventiveness, her creativity and her social skills, but it doesn’t hurt if she looks like Catherine Zeta Jones or Madonna.Let’s face it: society is us. The collective “we” has a tendency to punish women for the natural aging process. Expectations are high. By the time women hit thirty, society expects the following:

 
1. Wrinkle-free skin - “Age-Defying Formulas”, “antioxidants”, “facial enhancers”, cleansers and creams are hot selling products to keep a woman’s skin abnormally supple and pliant. Think plastic-girl with skin like a baby’s butt. That’s what I said: ew.
2. Perfect Marriage, Perfect Home, Perfect Children - Forget the Stepford wife motif. Women have long suffered to protect the unwritten rule that they must achieve these levels of perfection. They are judged by how happy their households are, how healthy their kids seem, and how solid their relationships are with their husbands. Anyone who says that society doesn’t do that is either lying or a spinster.
3. Steady Career - Those who get away with #2, fall under this category. Dedicated and “married” to their jobs, these women model their lives after Oprah. If there is a Stedman around, he’s lying dormant under the foot of his driven fiancee. Oh, and it helps if she has a mooch friend like Gayle King, who can back her shit up and tag along with her on “girlfriend” trips around the world.
4. More than One Child - They say the first child is practice. The second child gives a woman experience. Parenthood is often judged by how many children you learn to manage over time.
5. Speaking of Experience… - It helps if a woman is worldly while she’s still young enough to enjoy it. As if we should all lay down and die the minute the clock strikes thirty. Isn’t life only a quarter done at 25?
6. Health Conscious - Nevermind the struggle to stay away from fatty foods, as one gets older, you’re also expected to go to the gym at least 3 times a week, drink 8 glasses of water a day, and learn how to work out the mind as well as the body–whew! Factor in osteoperosis, early menopause, and breast cancer and it’s no wonder women are the highest percentile to suffer from depression.

Plus, women have longer life spans in which we can ponder the mysteries behind our mates’ mid-life crises and compete with girls half our age eager to step into our spotlight. It’s not just perky breasts and flaky dispositions. It’s coping with the fact that we may experience cheating a million times over before we ultimately decide to become nuns, exotic dancers, spinsters or lesbians. It’s time, precious time. Fleeting, patience and time that licks us. How can we avoid gray hairs knowing that these things may come to pass in our lifetimes? I can’t say that we can. Everytime I see a young “bippie” (as I like to call them) I can’t say that a little green man called, Envy doesn’t rear his ugly head. I’m ashamed to say it, but it does. I used to be that bippie. But alas, I haven’t found any fountain of youth. Now, when my bones crack, they really crack. I can hear them. It takes me million years to get up in the morning now when in the past, all it took was a couple of minutes. About the only joy I find is knowing that one day that young bippie will become an old fart. It happens to the best of us. Unless you’re a freak of nature like Demi Moore. I’ve a feelin’ though that someday, man…That is…I hope.So yeah! We may not all be able to stay shiny like brand new copper pennies but over time, we save them and know what they’re worth.