Milk.

According to The American Heritage Dictionary, this is the definition of milk:
1. a. a whitish liquid that is produced by the mammary glands of all mature female mammals aftery they have given birth and is used for feeding their young. b. The milk of cows, goats, or other animals, used as food by humans. 2. A liquid similar to milk in appearance, as coconut milk, milkweed sap, or plant latex. 3. Any of various medicinal emulsions. v. milked, milking, milks. 1. To draw milk from the teat or udder of (a female mammal). 2. To press out, drain off, or remove by or as if by milking. 3. To draw out or extract something from as if by milking. 4. To use for one's own benefit; exploit.

And so on.

I think I was trying to milk something out of myself that just didn't happen. I had hopes. I thought it would be this journey. That I would get to this amazing place. That the blog would be a way to track it. To record it. In a funny way. A blog means a web log-- which is essentially, a diary. I wanted this to be more. But soon, I realized, I needed it to be a diary. As a way to record how I was feeling. To help get me through it. But the fact is, it's out there. The pain. The lack of movement, the falls and the utter and complete loss of a strategy. So this isn't saying anything helpful about me anymore. Or where I'm going. Now I'm at the point where I type. Post. And then delete. Which is not a good sign. I'm on a rollercoaster that even I want to get off of. So I decided that I would let the milk run dry, so to speak. And for the final week or however many stories I have that were rejected, I will post them. So that much as was said in the very beginning, it will be what I wanted it to be-- a way to get my writing out there. For free.

Trying to Stay Positive Even Though I'm Negative

My bank balance that is. -44.26. This is not a good feeling. In fact, it's hard to breathe. Because I'm not getting paid until after the 10th. I am attempting to think positive. To breathe. To focus on finding a way not to be negative. Mentally and financially. And breathe.

Thought this would help. Even though I can't offer much help myself, if you-- any of you-- can offer something for this kid. Please do. The gifts are being delivered at the end of the week. And I'm sure, if more come in, they'll be delivered next week as well.

From: Jesse Albert
Sent: Wednesday, July 26, 2006 7:11 PM
To: undisclosed-recipients
Subject: Job List

I rarely ask anything in return for providing you with the job list. I
am now. Please read the following and help out.
Ian is my friend David's 16 year old cousin. Ian's My Space site (link
below) tells you that he's a cancer survivor. What it doesn't tell you
is that his cancer has taken a turn for the worse and despite having the
best Dr.'s in the world treating him, things are very tough for him
right now. He's undergoing lots of chemo, has a central line inserted
(again) and will have more surgery to remove lesions on his heart and
lungs.
This shouldn't happen to anyone, much less a sixteen year old kid.
I want to do everything I can for him, including loading him down with
DVDs, music, books, posters, games, paraphernalia and such. Whenever you
have a moment, grab some CDs, DVDs, autographs or posters, (anything and
everything is appreciated) and messenger or mail them to my office.
(address below) If you can, please forward this email to friends around
town so they too can contribute.
I'll send him a care package from UTA next week or I can also provide
mailing information for those willing to send to Ian directly.
Ian's My Space Blog:

Ian's mother's blog about his cancer: www.ianwhite.blogspot.com
Thanks much for your help.
Jesse


_______________________
Jesse ½ Albert
United Talent Agency
9560 Wilshire Blvd.
Beverly Hills, CA 90212
Direct: 310.246.6048
Aol IM: JessAlbert1
Skype: JesseAlbert
_______________________

Closer to Acceptance

Today is the first day I haven't had to be anywhere or do anything in 10 days. My first day without smokey eyes and eyeliner. Without makeup. And my first day sitting here just reading what I want to read for as long as I want to read. It's kind of nice. Actually, really nice. Of course, every single magazine I have a subscription to came while I was gone. I'm debating whether or not I should wait to read some of them until I leave for Boston on the 8th. That's a long flight, too. But it seems when I'm on the plane I always want to read something other than what I brought or do something else. Like sleep. Or talk.

My essay wasn't in the Times today like it was supposed to be. But that's okay. I figure it will show up sooner or later. And I have a lot to write in the meantime. While I was gone, I got a lovely rejection letter from this really cool literary journal that only covers the topic of food. In all of its guises. It's called Alimentum (www.alimentumjournal.com). I submitted my anorexia story. Yes, a little dark for the foodies. But I figured why not. The editor wrote a personal note telling me to try again. So he must have thought the same thing. They never write personal notes on the form letters. So I feel like I'm getting a bit closer to acceptance and further from outright rejection. Which in and of itself is slightly inspiring. Much like the following...

New York Magazine had a terrific and insightful article about happiness. These are my favorite statistics:

*A super abundance of choices is not a blessing but a recipe for madness. People either can't choose or are convinced they chose badly.

*People who seek out the best options in life are maximizers. And maximizers, in practically every study one can find, are far more miserable than people who are willing to make do.

*Money may not make people happy, but disparities in income make people miserable. So happiness is less a function of absolute income than of comparative income. And that's why cities such as New York (and LA!) make people unhappy because no matter how hard you try you can't help but see people who are doing better than you on a consistent basis as opposed to a rural area where people are more likely to have close to the same income and things.

*Human beings are terrible predictors of what will make them happy. That's why we think getting back together with our exes will make us happy.

*We're more apt to feel comfortable with mistakes we can't reverse than those we can.

*Married people are happier than those who are not. (40% of married Americans stated they were very happy while only 24% of unmarried Americans said the same).

*Smarter people aren't any happier but those who drink in moderation are.

*Attractive people are only slightly happier than unnattractive people.

*Being surrounded by friends and family is one of the most crucial determinants of our well-being.

*Two separate groups of men, when given colonoscopies, reported less discomfort if the instrument sat in place for a few seconds after the procedure, even though it prolonged the exam. The reason is that the final moment involved less pain. Apparently, we define and remember our experiences by their highs, lows and how they end.

*We can be victims of learned helplessness. In other words, we can become prisoners of our own habits or virtual shut-ins of our own minds-- so if we're led to believe for long enough that we can't escape or make things better, soon we begin to believe it and don't escape or do anything to change our situation when we can.


And in "Self" Magazine in an article on sex:

*82% of women reported the best sex of their lives was with someone they loved.

*67% of women say sex is better if they love their partners.

*94% of women would rather have storybook love and so-so sex than smoldering sex and tepid love.

*89% say they have better orgasms when they're sure of their partner's love for them.


So why do I like these statistics? Some because they make me laugh. And others because they make me feel a little bit more normal. But only a little.

Why Does This Look Like the Ghetto?

That was the question I asked a Miami policeman as I pulled up for gas at 3:30 in the am after dancing and frolicking with my new friends. His answer? "Because it is the ghetto." It seems I missed my exit. I can always get somewhere it seems. It's just the getting home that's been a problem. That reversing mapquest thing that usually works at home doesn't seem to apply in Miami. Note to self for next visit: print out the coming AND going back. Luckily the very nice policeman didn't arrest me or chastise me or anything like that. He gave me directions. But first, he pumped my gas. Yes. Really. He did. Can you imagine? That was about as shocking as having men buy me drinks and food. Clearly there's a different vibe working in this city. Or I'm working a different vibe. It's so hard to tell. Now I'm sitting in the airport trying to kill 3 hours. I missed my plane. Two hours sleep just wasn't going to happen. The Continental phone lady told me I had to get to the airport within 2 hours of missing it to get on standby without having to pay more money for a new ticket. So here I sit. I have internet access so that's good. I'm hiding behind this shrub because there's a random guy who wants to buy me coffee and said he'd be looking for me. I'm too tired for coffee. And conversation. And a random guy. I think there are a lot more men in Miami or something. I don't know how else to explain all this attention.

Did you know there's a sushi bar in the Miami airport? With a legitimate sushi chef. Not some white guy masquerading as one. And they have a hotel and lobby and bar. It's kind of interesting. The whole airport culture. How each one is so different. Anyway. I saw Palm Beach Gardens, Miami Beach, Boca Raton, Coconut Grove (that was the ghetto), South Beach and Aventura. I've seen a lot of malls. Done a lot of driving. Alot. I don't even drive that much at home. I winged it a bunch. I stayed at a Best Western and a Courtyard Marriott. I got bit by bugs in each. But only accosted in one. I took some walks on the beach. Saw bars and dance clubs. Saw bars and dance clubs where everyone was 35-55. I didn't even know those kind of places existed. I don't know if they should. Kidding. I think it's more that I don't want to be at a place like that when I'm on the older side of that age. It feels sad. That being said, I like Miami. I want to come back. We'll see what happens with the Boscia of it all. I booked things as if I could and would be coming back. But it's not the same any more. There's no Caren. The reason behind it is gone. The motivation. I've continued to apply for jobs. I'm still going to sell things I own. I'm more okay with it now. The world seems a bit bigger and a lot more fun. So we'll see what happens with everything. With my life. With finding funds to live sans donations. I thought it was a fun idea, but maybe not so much. Good concept but poor execution perhaps. I think I would have to have a hook on the blog. And I don't really know what that would be right now. How to sell skincare? Inside Sephora? How to talk to strangers? How to stay single when you don't want to be? Well, for now I'll just keep doing my thing. Typing and talking to randoms. And with any luck, by the time I land I'll have a strategy.

There's No Place Like Home.

Not that I don't like Miami. I do very much. I like it all...the architecture, the people... It's just, I think I'd like Miami on vacation better. While wearing my bathing suit (which unfortunately, I didn't have sent to me or really have time to use). This working every day thing for a thousand days straight-- well, not really a thousand-- just nine days straight is really a little draining after awhile. Being "on" all the time is draining. Granted, I'm the one who scheduled the trip this way. I needed to make $1,500 to pay my rent and bills. So the $1,500 trip. Yes, that's what 10 days gets me. Unfortunately, not until August 15th. So it also gets me stress. Do I tap dance for my not-so-kind landlord until the 15th or borrow money yet again and pay it back on the 15th? It's a toss up, I think. In other words, ladies and gentlemen-- let me just reiterate-- if you can avoid bankruptcy, do. Why? Well simple. Besides paying a couple hundred bucks to a man in a mini mall a long ways away to fill out all your paperwork erroneously not just once or twice, but three times, you also get to drive downtown and sit in a courtroom filled yes, FILLED with other people doing the same thing. You raise your hand, promise you're you, that you didn't buy anything big and fun for yourself and have no plans to do so. That you didn't hide any money (if only). And that's it. Most of the other people at my courthouse had interpreters. So much for the American dream, right? Anyway, so that really wasn't the worst part. That comes later. When you realize you don't have that cushion we call a credit card. Because if you had credit cards. And were solvent, you wouldn't be freaking out about being out of pocket for gasoline and parking and tips and all that stuff. You also wouldn't have no money in your bank account as a result. Although debit cards are a blessing, they're also a curse. Of course, if I was getting paid more and worked consisently and had health insurance, this all may not be an issue either. Which is why most of the women doing these freelance jobs are married. Which I should have paid attention to. Getting married. As if. And that this is the going rate for this type of work. Although I am thankful to have had the work itself and been able to go to Florida and Vegas and things like that, it really doesn't make good longterm financial sense for a single woman with precarious mental health.

All this considered and the fact that I have no idea what's going on with the company I'm working for... we're all a little in the dark, it's time to find a new position. Yesterday I learned that another person is leaving. The one who got me reimbursed for my expenses. Not such a good sign. And for some reason, my sister, who has a place to live whether she works or not is much more in a tizzy about all this than I am. Apple... tree, anyone? She's kind of a Chicken Little. She's also had more issues with what she's been getting paid than I have and hasn't stopped talking to me about it since she started the position. How her husband thinks it's not worth her time. So why didn't she quit? She liked it. I could tell. Just not the money. Welcome to my world, I told her. And not even really. I wish I had a husband telling me I was worth more. Anyone telling me I was worth more. Maybe even myself.

So last night I canceled my date and applied for 5-- count 'em 5 jobs on the internet (which may not sound like a lot, but it takes awhile to find them). All of these jobs required new and exciting cover letters and fancy modifications to my resume. I swear I could publish a book. Maybe I should. What has failed to work on exactly 3,542 occasions. Well, maybe. Close to that. Maybe more. That's scary. Anyway. Fingers crossed I get called in for at least one. Phooey to dreams, I need money. I'm going into another temp company on Tuesday and doing the mandatory spelling test, typing test, computer skills test like last time. Only this time, I plan to lie. To say I don't need to be happy. I don't need to think. I just need to make money. I'll think on my own time. And hopefully write. Things other than cover letters and resumes. And finish that script once and for all. And come back to Miami as a common tourist. Forgetting about things like skin cancer and and baring skin that no one else wants to see.

Red Paper Clip Guy Had a Strategy

My friend Romy had read me that story in people magazine about Red Paper Clip guy... you know the guy who traded a red paper clip for something bigger and better? Well, if not. Here's the story. He basically traded a paper clip for a house through a series of barters during the course of a year. He was inspired by some childhood barter game called Bigger and Better and started by posting a message on Craigslist.com offering his red paper clip for trade. After 14 trades -- gradually increasing in value from a fish-shaped pen to a small doorknob, a camping stove, a power generator, a snowmobile and a small-truck -- he ended up with a house in Saskatchewan, Canada. Me? I've never heard of the game. I clearly needed a more playful childhood. Because much as I thought would happen, he sold the movie rights. And after a series of screenwriters, it will someday make it to the screen. Perhaps if I could get my own strategy together, it could even be me.

The good news? My car is only $450. Which is a lot of red paper clips. I wonder what red paper clip does for a living? Or rather, did. Now he has funny money. Movie money. Well, after he gets paid. Which could be awhile, frankly. And then there's the agent or lawyer fees or both. And then just wait-- Red Paper Clip guy sell the house and move out to LA to be an actor. There's an end to the story. I do think he's clever.

So nightmares. Crazy nightmares. My allergies aren't so good so that might be part of it. Because if it's PMS again... can someone be in a state of perpetual PMS? Nah. I think that would qualify as an excuse for being a crazy person as opposed to actually being one. Although my optimistic-- I'll Get a Strategy thing? Well, I'm frankly at a loss right now. That better change, though. Because the job and trips I had booked? Well, they may not be there when I get back. And to be honest? I kind of wish I was back. Or could lie out on the beach and have a grand epiphany. I know, I know-- wishing is not a strategy either. Maybe I can something Oprah likes. Then everyone would want me. Now that may not be a strategy, but if you think about it, it's kind of funny.

Argh Now. Milk Later

No argh. Okay, argh. I'm trying not to argh. But there have been so many argh-worthy things happening that detaching is more than just a science... it's an argh!!!!! And I'm not even home.

I will stop for a minute and give myself a small pat but nonetheless a pat on the back for leaving my hotel room and going downstairs and sitting in view of the beach to eat my first meal of the day... at 8:30pm. Instead of letting things get to me. I mean, I am in Miami, after all. Miami! I've never been to Miami. That's cool and should be seen as such. Even if I didn't have any time to consume food like a normal person until 8:30pm. Sure, it was partially to save money and partially out of a sense of obligation to sell, sell, sell while at a store. Still... I should have bought the Happy Legs. Biotherm has some stuff called Happy Legs that has menthol and helps swelling go down which retail people often get from standing for so many hours. And which I have right at this very minute. Yes, I should have bought it and bathed in it, actually.

So why am I not in a happy place while in a happy place? Internet. Damn internet... which brings me to email. In which I learn that my car repairs were $600. Which I don't have. Argh. This is usually when fear sets in. Since there is no credit card or funds to cover said repairs. Bankruptcy, yes, it blows. But now, I wonder... what can I do? Give up? Or not give up. There are only two options. Let's face it, no one is saving me. It's not supposed to work that way. I have to save myself. So I better suck it up. I better sell some shit. I better figure out a strategy. A much better one than I've used in the last 5 years. The only problem is. I have no idea what it is. I thought I'd have lots of time to write while here. And yes, I did have some time to have fun. Two nights. But that was for mental health. And stories. The thing is, training and selling and driving kind of wear you out mentally. And fun? That's kind of a recharger. Let's face it, at home? I haven't been on the fun bandwagon.

Anyway, so through another email I found out two friends have left Boscia. Two important people. Today was their last day. One was my friend who has been so good to me who I've known since I was a brownie and the other, her friend who is a doll... And for them, it's a big deal. I'm sure. For me, it's emotional. For so many reasons. Boscia was her company. She built it. I liked contributing to something that she built. To help her company succeed. It makes it all seem worthwhile in some way. Skincare. Seem worthwhile. Whether I can get by or not was of course, always an issue. But that helped it. And it let me travel to fun destinations. Now? Argh.

See, this trip? It will pay my rent. That's it. Rent. And for two weeks...? $37. Yes. I plan to sell things. Before I leave again, I will sell things. Just not my desk. I like my desk. I write at my desk. Although when I get home, I'm going to write out of the house. I think I'm more stimulated when I'm not home alone feeling lonely.

So while staring at the ocean and eating food, I talked to my friend at home who is having a hard time. Here's the thing. I love her and don't know any more if what I say helps. I would like to help. I would like her to be happy. Love that for her. But I don't know if I'm the best support system. I try. I listen. I care. I give advice. But I am, after all, me. And if I knew what I was talking about I would probably have what I want. As one of my other friends said, who's your up person? Meaning that all of us are kind of in the same place. So are we all really helping each other?

Then... the guy I met here was pouting about not seeing me. Which was kind of nice... At first. And then he started acting wishy-washy-- like if I didn't want to see him, I didn't have to and so forth and so on just to let him know. Then it turned into some random conversation about some girl he used to date and his confidence level and suddenly, I was talking him through something. He then asked me out and proceeded to ask me when I wanted to go out and where I wanted to go and you know... to give him a plan. Me? I would like to hear a plan. A man asks you out. He's supposed to have a plan. I told him that. I don't know where I am-- geographically. (He doesn't have to know about the rest of it). And it would be nice to have someone make a plan for me. A small bit of effort. Yes, even a guy I may never see again. Not hear about some other girl... Argh.

And. The clincher? I ate bread. I NEVER eat bread.

You Don't Know How Bad You Have It Until You Have it Good

That might sound like a downer. But it's not. Really. It's more an observation. A lesson. That I learned as... I traveled to a different city. Switched hotels. Went out by myself for a drink... and a drink and another drink (all on different nights. Well, most on different nights). And worked at numerous Sephoras and BBWs (Bath & Body Works for those of you laymen) in a state you've never been in.

For one, leaving your life lets you see what your life really is. And what you've let it become.
It also lets you see that the possibilities are endless.
That you can move. And that geography is just that.
And that if you never go out with your single friends since all of you are over going out & if you never see your married friends because they're too busy, then you can talk to any of the aforementioned just as much or just as little in any city you decide to be in.
That you can actually meet people just being out of the house-- IF you let yourself.
Meeting or hanging out with a new man every night? Not so bad.
Dancing? Even better.
Doting men are nice-- if not confusing. Particularly when you don't even live in the city.
When they offer to let you stay with them for the rest of your trip-- even more confusing.
Men who dance are fun.
Dancing is fun.
Men who tries to accost you and then offer to buy you wine and massage you in your room at a ghetto motel? Well, I think you can guess the answer. Yes, even if it has been awhile.
But who wants to report a man who makes $9 an hour who doesn't seem to know any better?
Particularly not when you can switch hotels. Which I might not have done otherwise and thank God I did.
Room service. A beautiful thing.
Affordable room service? Even better.
Internet access? Mandatory.
Good sheets and pillows? Again, mandatory.
Getting bit in the middle of the night by only who knows what is slightly disconcerting.
Luckily, I have skincare products that make the bites hurt less.
Which was a big selling point for one product. So there you go.
Nice stores are... nice. Support? Nice.
Bed? Nicer. Me? I'm so there.

What a Difference a City Makes & A Whole New Strategy

So. My first work day in Florida was not so fabulous... at first. The people who worked at the store I was at were hostile. Hostile to me, hostile to each other, and hostile to CUSTOMERS! It was crazy. Perfectly nice customers with skincare needs. I tried all day to train the "cast members" and no one would be trained. I tried all day to sell product, but I'll be damned in those cast members didn't have a whole different agenda. Namely, their own. They have a skincare contest going on and the higher the price point of the products, the higher the likelihood they'll win the contest. I think they get a trip or something, I'm not sure. But when a vendor comes in, not so cool to ignore them. Sell the whole regimen of a similar yet more expensive line repeatedly when the vendor is standing right there. The deal is this-- contest or no contest, when a vendor comes into a store such as a Sephora or a Bath & Body Works Flagship store, the whole idea is for us to offer training on the line to new "cast members" or "sales associates" while also assisting them in selling the line and educating the store's customers on the line as well as sampling them on various products. Nice stores listen and are kind, supportive and in some rare cases, actually enthusiastic. This store? Not so nice. Actually, the anti-nice. What we as vendors like to have happen is for the sales associates (again "cast members" at Sephora) to steer a customer to us whenever possible -- just to give the intro to the customer to see if they're open to it-- of course, this all depends on whether or not it fits in with the customer's needs.

And truthfully, sometimes it doesn't. There are some people who are label whores. Some people who don't believe a product under $100 could possibly work or do what it says it's supposed to do. There are other people who are hooked on MD brands (Perricone, Murad, etc). And those people, you let do their thing. Sure, you try to let them know-- fine, use those treatments, but try this in conjunction-- song and dance and why it makes sense. Boscia is a great product so the song and dance isn't that complicated. It's just always a dance. Such is life. Anyway, the only other supportive human was a fellow freelancer from Stila. A GORGEOUS woman who I am ever so grateful to-- for having a sense of humor, telling me that no other freelancers like to go to that store and that when she's there, she behaves like a cat. There were other tips, too. But I have to hold a few in reserve. All that taken into account, mid-day, I decided to have a strategy. To turn it around. How I planned to do this? Bribe them of course. No, not really. But I did ask them what would make them more supportive etc. How I could work with them... blah, blah, blah. Then somehow, before I slit my wrists with a plastic spatula used for product, one of the managerial types started telling me stories of her own. Horror stories of working at that location. And after an hour of nodding and stroking and completely understanding and being somewhat amused, I broke through. My childhood was easier than that, I tell you. Well, not really. Well, actually, if that day was repeated over and over and over again... kind of the same thing. Really. And I was just as proud of myself for surviving it. And turning around. And then, finding my way to Whole Foods-- where I got a date. Seriously. On my first day in Florida.

I GOT A DATE.

It was kind of crazy. Actually really crazy. This guy approached me as I was leaving. A very good looking guy. With the worst line ever: "What are you doing? Taking that back?" I was confused and said as much-- "And why would I be taking groceries back?" His answer? "I don't know. I just wanted to talk to you." God bless him. So we talked. In the parking lot and he wanted to see me again and after this, that and the other thing, I ended up out with him on a Friday night. Yes, a remarkable occurance. And it was quite lovely, I might add. I should mention his name is Jonathan. And he is an entrepeneur who also teaches tennis and writes. There is one John I know who will appreciate the whole tennis of it all.
Oh, and did I mention that I went with him to a Chabad dinner? (Is that how you spell Chabad??? -- will look up in hotel room. Writing in the lobby is getting somewhat tiring-- particularly after working and dating and working and finding my way home-- which was quite the feat-- an hour and a half drive each way today). Well, the dinner was educational, the people were lovely and I was spontaneous. Which I usually am if given the chance. I've had many, many epiphanies in this short time in Florida... which I will share tomorrow. Maybe I'll give a little milk every day. Yes, like a cow.

For now, off to bed. Happy Birthday to John. Happy Birthday to Sheridan. And you know, Happy Birthday to me!!!!

Hope is Not a Strategy & Other Wise Words

Okay, so Brian, my exit row companion on the flight to Houston was basically Anthony Robbins. Not that I'm super familiar with Anthony Robbins, but the things he was saying seemed like the kind of "you make your life what you want it to be" things that some kind of Anthony Robbins-esque person would say. It was like kick my ass-- in a good way-- Day 2. If someone somewhere isn't trying to get me a message... well, they should have told John and Brian. I have no idea how it all began. He said hello and yeah, I think that pretty much did it. What began with "reasons are one thing and excuses another" led to "hope is not a strategy" and "do you want someone to teach you to fish or to give you fish?" Apparently, he had some mentor somewhere like that old sports agent guy that kept popping up in "Jerry Maguire." There were stories tied to all of these little nuggets. And they weren't all about me. Thankfully. The long and short of it is I get it. I do get it. Really. I need to change my thinking. I need to take responsibility. I need to keep learning how to fish. And keep fishing even if I don't catch anything. Which applies to work and dating and pretty much the whole life plan. And to figure out a strategy to catch fish if my methods aren't working. Brian did throw me one bone-- that the whole dating thing sucked from what he remembered. And he's married. For ten years. With two kids. I guess he had not so fond memories of dating or LA. He kept telling me I should move.

Anyway, all in all, a fan of Brian. He was infinitely more entertaining than the very large woman invading my personal space between Houston and Ft. Lauderdale. I was a middle. I thought exit is always better. Even if it's a middle. But I was wrong. And I'm sure that Brian would have had some sort of nugget to explain why it isn'. Too bad he wasn't on that flight. He could have helped drown out the very loud man and woman behind me. Thank God for headphones and rap music. Yes, I rapped all the way to Ft. Lauderdale. Then retrieved my Mack Daddy rental car... some huge ass white SUV because that's all they had and felt like I had truly hit Miami.

I'm actually in Bal Harbour, Florida. I've never been to Florida. And although I got here after midnight and am typing this in the reception area while the registration clerk yells at her boyfriend in a language I've never heard before, I'm kind of digging it. Because I'm at a hotel. On the beach! It has a whole kitchen set up and two beds and I can see the ocean. I don't even care that I have to sit in the reception area for wireless access. Because I have a little balcony. And they serve breakfast. On the water. Even though tans are bad. Very bad. And you should never get them because they harm your skin and age you and could cause cancer...I'm on the beach! Oh, yeah. I'm working. Still. And I forgot my bathing suit. Still... it's enough to make me want to embrace my inner Orange County.

Tired now. Have to be up early. And this isn't too articulate. But I felt like writing something a little less fetal position. Am going to work on a strategy. In my sleep. And on the beach and at Sephora and Bath & Body Works. And in between, I might just get a tan. Well, a little one.

The Ex-Convict is Smart and Money, Give Me Money...?

He is. Very, very smart. And he was there for me. Which was very, very nice. He knows how to suck it up. He knows how to make money. He knows how to get what he wants. And he knows me. Which he did not want... but you know. I get it. That. I get. The thing is, he does care. And he knows how to kick my ass. Which I needed. I know I needed it. But he knew how to do it in just the right way. Pisses me off. But not really.

I just found out today that my piece for the Los Angeles Times Sunday magazine, "West," is going to be published on Sunday, August 2nd. I'm very, very happy. Even though they edited it quite a bit. I'm happy. Just to be published. Finally.

So tonight I had an idea. Something I was thinking of doing that I'm trying out. Although it might be a little Save Karyn. But it seems everyone is doing it. I'm going to ask for donations (see button on the side).

I know, I know what you're thinking. Who does she think she is? And why reward someone for whining? Well, that's just it. I'm not going to whine anymore. At all. It will be Pavlovian. You will be the parents I never had. The pat on the back that I can't seem to give myself. My Kazoo. (Flintstones anyone?) And I will learn. I will not whine. I will find solutions. I will not have pity parties. Or breakdowns. And I will get rewarded (well hopefully). I will be happy (hopefully). And I will be rewarded (again, hopefully). I will be obligated to be happy. To suck it up. Obligated to look on the bright side. And not have a depressing blog. Obligated to write something funny or entertaining or something of value... even if it's just to recommend a good book. I will owe you that. Even if all I get is 25 cents. Because it's this simple: I know that you earned that 25 cents. And that earning money-- any amount of money is not always easy. And that you thought enough of what I wrote and what I'm trying to do that you would reward me. I know that it's not getting the milk for free. But the milk has gone sour. And I need to change that. I need to get my t-shirt line going and I don't have funds. I need to date. Even if means going online which also means funds. I need to be out in the world. With a smile on my face. I need to believe. And I need to write. And more than anything else, I need to get it together. I'm hoping this will work. Unlike anorexia, which when I had did not make my father love me. Although I was certain it would. And I was quite good at it. When I commit to something I can succeed. I just need to believe it again. To let go of the past and what I've been doing wrong. And start doing something right.

So I hope that it's okay. I'm a little scared to put it out there. But fear has been what has kept me where I'm at. And not knowing how to ask for what I need. I'm learning. Slowly. I think the breakdowns have been good... you know, that whole rock bottom so you can pick yourself up? Perhaps not fun to read, fun to have. But I'm thinking they worked. Well, I'm hoping that's the case. Tomorrow I leave for Florida. Perhaps I'll have fun and amazing stories to share. If not, I'll make them up. Because I figure at the end of the day, just for reading, I owe you.

Bitch. Moan. Whine.

Yes, I do get it. Although I am not about to be hypnotized. By anybody. This is the deal. I'm tired. And sometimes it takes a toll on me. And although I do know that it doesn't help to get beaten down and show it and have pity parties and act like a crazy person, at the end of the day, I am human. Not a saint. A woman. Who gets hormonal. And scared. And disappointed in myself and where I'm at. And who wanted things in her life that didn't happen. And who worked so hard to insure that they would. And who sometimes feels stuck and like no matter how hard I try, it doesn't get me anywhere. Did I have something to do with it? Yes. And can I change it? I hope so. I've seen other people who have managed to do so. And I aspire to be that strong and have that gumption. And when I was younger, I did. Because I still believed. Yes, I've had some amazing things happen in my life. And also, some not so amazing things. And the not so amazing things at times overwhelm me. And sometimes other people make mistakes that can affect my whole life and its balance by just not paying attention. Look, I'm doing the best I can. Sometimes the best is not very good. Horrible even. An embarrassment. I embarrass myself a lot. And sometimes, it's almost there. I can find hope in the simplest things. But sometimes the simplest things don't come along. If it was that easy for everyone, then there wouldn't be antidepressants and shrinks and self help books and welfare and shelters. Not everyone can just pull out of it or take the punches gracefully. Not everyone has been given the tools or learned them or is smart enough to see them. I know I haven't been graceful. I would like to be. I am trying to be. But sometimes, it's a struggle. And recognizing it intellectually does not necessarily mean processing it or knowing how to fix it or even how to behave. That being said, at the end of the day, if you don't want to watch the car accident, then don't slow down.

A Sad But True Realization.

I've only been kissed twice this year by a man. When I say "twice this year", it means I was only kissed by a man on 2 out of 365 days... on two separate occasions. Once by someone who didn't mean it. And the next by someone who was young enough to pretend that he did. Times I was held? Zero. And sex? Well, somewhere in the middle.

No wonder I'm crazy. Remember that doctor who didn't touch his child-- a baby-- to see what would happen, then the baby, his child, died? Well, I wouldn't want to be kissed by that particular doctor. But you get my point. The crazy part. And why.

It's like I was saying to my mom, does it matter if you're interesting if nobody hears your stories? It's like being alive and not really being alive all at the same time. No wonder my heart hurts.

My Furniture is Worth More Than I Am

I have alot of stuff. I think I've mentioned that before. Furniture from my grandparents and things I've acquired on my own. Some of it isn't my style any more. Or at least not how it's currently arranged. But the whole redecorating thing is not really an option right now. Paint is not free. Or storage space. And some of the things I want to keep. Just keep someplace else. My mother lives in a townhouse and has a carport. My sister? Well, even though she has quite a big garage and a big house, they're filled with her own things. And I don't really see her making room for mine. I do need a filing cabinet for all of my stories and paper and things. So yesterday, I went looking just to see what's out there. Because I do like to look and explore-- whether I can have or not. It's inspiring to me. One minute, I'm looking at a filing cabinet and the next, I've redecorated my entire place in my head. There's a lot of cool shit out there. And even though it can't be mine right now, I find it comforting that it even exists. Kind of like love. And marriage.

In my wanderings, I also found out that my desk is now worth nearly $10,000 which is more than both my car and I am currently worth. Which is kind of exciting. But I don't want to sell my desk. I like my desk. I bought it for myself when I got staffed on the show. Like Melanie Griffith said in "Working Girl"-- if you want to be taken seriously, you need serious hair. Well, I'm not about to cut my hair so that's not where this is going. More in the direction of if you want to take yourself seriously as a writer, you need a serious desk. Apparently, my serious desk is quite rare now. It's a vintage stainless steel partner desk with bookcases on the side and gold hardware. That's what this very hardworking guy who owns a steel furniture store told me. I think he's hardworking because he was sweating profusely from delivering furniture and he's been there for over seven years. His place doesn't have air conditioning either. Apparently, there's not a lot of money in selling steel furniture. Or time to worry about air conditioning. I'm going to see about trading one of my stainless steel pieces for a filing cabinet. Although not right now. Because this week I leave for Florida. For work.

For the next month and a half, I'm traveling to pay my bills. Like one of those traveling salesmen back in the day. I'm going to Florida for 10 days. Then Boston for 6, Virginia for 6 and finally, Arizona for 4. I'll be gone for 26 days total. I'm going to miss my cats and my friends and yoga and hiking. I won't miss my furniture. Well, maybe my desk. It will just pay my bills. Clearly, this is not an effective long term strategy. However, it's the only option at present. It is better than the fetal position. Even though I was getting comfortable there. But I must figure something out. Because the idea is to move forward. And to get what I want. Breakdowns while not always fun, sometimes can push you into action. My breakdown was a combination of hormones and life. And seeing someone I care about. Who has everything I want but has it with someone else. I really do wish that The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind was an option. It would make things so much easier. Because nothing else I've tried seems to work.

So generic birth control pills? While they do save money, they can also make you have crazy mood swings. Well at least they have to at least some 300 women on this site I went to at 3am in the morning. All of whom were just trying to save money and ended up nearly offing themselves. That's not really something you want to have in common with strangers. The search for suicide methods. Needless to say, I'm switching to a name brand. I guess my teeth and glasses will just have to wait.

It's Hard to Type While in a Fetal Position

It's also hard to meet a man, make money, and change your situation. However, it is quite easy to cry, think you're a loser and panic about your life. Oh. And last but not least, text message people you have no business text messaging. But it is free. Not the texting, the fetal position. And despite preferring to meet my friends out, so that I can forget about the loser thing and money thing and perhaps actually see men, I can only do things that are free. So I'm off now to assume the position. I might try rocking back and forth today. Just to mix it up. Maybe that way I'll fall asleep and when I wake up, I'll have answers. Or money. I wonder if that would be considered entertainment on a street corner. If so, maybe I'll attempt it. Maybe then, other people will feel as sorry for me as I'm feeling sorry for myself. Well, actually I don't feel sorry for myself. I just feel like a loser. That's different.

The Grind

I went to the dentist today to have my teeth cleaned. I wasn't going to go, but when I was growing up, that was the one thing my mother always made sure she took care of-- God bless her. We had a great dentist, Dr. Landes. He told us we were beautiful and let us pick toys out of the treasure chest. I wasn't getting that at home, toys and the 'you're beautiful' thing--- hence loving the dentist. Who knew it could be that easy to love a dentist, right?

I remember getting made fun of when I was in elementary school because my hair was greasy and my mother wouldn't let me wash my hair myself since she thought I was too young and she was too depressed to wash it for me-- so my hair was greasy-- but I had perfect teeth. I think I was in like 2nd or 3rd grade. There was this girl Staci and she followed me around and taunted and ridiculed me and my dirty hair. Those were back in the dirty clothes/no clothes phases of my life. Back when our clothes got stolen from the laundromat and my mother nearly had a breakdown and called the police-- who thought she was insane. I see now what she wanted, someone to rescue her. Someone to make it alright. Someone to pay for what happened to her life. Since the person who should be paying wouldn't... that would be my dad. And for the fact her life had gone terribly wrong. So anyway, back to the whole mocking/taunting/ridiculing thing. The end result was to escape it, I had to eat lunch every single day while in the 5th grade with my teacher, Miss Smith. So maybe I was older when it happened... or it just never stopped. Anyway, my sister finally started washing my hair. Despite, this the making fun of me thing did go on for awhile. It all kind of merges together at this point. I do know elementary school was hell. Until I hit junior high and decided I would pretend to be happy. A skill that pops up only occasionally for me at this age. Damn it. Because it always works. People like happy people. As long as you're not so happy that people will do anything to make sure that you're not.

So. Thank GOD, my mother cared about teeth. Yesterday, I saw a friend who told me about his 23 year-old nephew whose teeth were messed up. When his nephew got off the plane, my friend saw him and was horrified. Why hadn't his sister ever taken her son to the dentist? My friend took his nephew there the next day. I can only imagine the dentist bill. When I was in the writer's room, there was a writer there-- he's now married-- quite happily and has perfect teeth-- but it wasn't always that way. Apparently, his parents were alcoholics and as he said it, "They had other fish to fry" when it came to things like dentists and basic hygiene. He never brushed his teeth. When his now wife met him, he had so much plaque on his teeth that he could barely close his mouth. She took him immediately to the dentist. They scraped off that plaque and guess what? Not a cavity in sight! How crazy is that? All they had to do was bleach his teeth-- which luckily for him were also completely straight since birth-- and he was good to go. My sister has tetracycline stains on her teeth which sucks -- you can't fix them with anything other than veneers. Which cost alot. I know, I researched it for her. I thought there had to be some way to get rid of that gray cast. That line. I mean, she has perfectly straight teeth-- what a shame. The Tetracylcine was for acne and she didn't know that was a side effect. Now the whole gray teeth thing? Me? I'd save up. I'd fix it. Yes, I'm that vain. Well, if I made money, I'd save up. Then again, I'm single. And 38. I don't have a lot going for me, so I kind of need good teeth. My sister? She kind of ignores it. Her husband says it costs too much money. We're different that way. I'm always trying to fix things that are broken. I don't know if that's such a good quality any more.

So my teeth? Used to be long and white and perfect. Pre-grinding. Now with allergies and stress and even with my nightguard and all, they're breaking in the back. Go figure. It seems I have ground the shit out of two of my teeth. It's $350 to fix. Which I can't afford to do. The mere panic of it made me cancel my eye appointment which I had optimitically booked for tomorrow. I was hoping to finally get glasses. But those will be about $600 what with my nightmare vision and all. So instead, I just reordered a 3 month supply of my old contact lens prescription and taped my glasses a little bit tighter. And tried to think about my dental hygienist's comment, "Thank God for writers. Otherwise, what would I do before bed?" Well, I can think of a few things that would be more interesting than reading, but given where I'm at in my life, I understood what she was saying and appreciated it. Completely.

I'm Not So Good.

So no blog entries. Not that there have been a dearth of people wondering. But what the hell. Thought I'd let my friends know why. Apologies. Now I must go back to the dark place. Thanks for reading.