Low-Level Nausea

So I have a blog. It's very pink isn't it? I'm not sure why I have a blog. It always seemed so...indiscreet. (No offense to any of you lovely bloggers out there, I do quite enjoy a lot of you). It's just that it seemed a little too self-important, and well, like I said before, a little indiscreet. But this morning I realized that discretion has really gotten me nowhere, so I may as well lay it on the line. If only to amuse myself, and to force myself to get back in the habit of writing daily. Oh yes, and I lost my job last month. Well, I mean, I didn't exactly lose it- I still know where it is, I'm just not allowed to go there anymore. So I have lots and lots of time on my hands.

I am a terrible time-waster. My report cards from kindergarten all the way through high school have one thing in common. "Stacie does not use time wisely." Oh sure, I'm dilligent when it comes to work- I doubt very much that I would have made it through college while working 50 hours a week, I probably would not have made it through law school, and I most certainly would not have made it through bar study if I was unable to manage my work time. My problem is wasting what precious little free time I have. I do have fantasies of toiling in a personal wood shop where I will build fabulous armoires, or learning to sew gorgeous couture ensembles. These fantasies are expensive and unrealistic. But I could surely find something worthwhile to do with myself, right?

What is used to do is write. I wrote regularly. Religiously, in fact. I have carried around a sad looking Crayola-Crayon embossed child's suitcase full of my old journals for the past 14 years. It's heavy. Its contents are embarassing. But it has served as a reminder that, at one point in my life, I felt that I had things to say. Important things. It's been a long time since I felt that way, and it's been a long time since I've written. There is nothing new under the sun, yes? So it's not that I feel that I have anything important to say now, but this can't be a bad way to sort out my own thoughts, can it? And it has to be a better way to spend my time than googling random things ("How do sumo wrestlers wipe their butts?") when I take a break from searching for that elusive job.

There's also the guilt of course- induced by my brother and my better half, Oleg.

My brother, who I will be writing about in more detail later on, has recently written two screenplays. Two. He's schizophrenic. He is living in a private hell right now that I cannot begin to imagine, and yet he's had the discipline, the patience, and the organizational skills to knock out two full-length screenplays in the past 6 months. That's pretty remarkable for anyone, never mind someone living with the stress and the confusion that he lives with. He was "inspired" by a screenplay of mine that is only 1/3rd finished, and that I haven't worked on in almost 8 years. He even typed it up for me and put it on a disk, since the computer I had it stored in is long since deceased. Everytime I see him, he asks me, "Have you worked on your screenplay?" "Oh-uh-no. I was thinking about it though..."

Then there is the better half, Oleg. Oleg, who will almost certainly tell you otherwise, "uses time wisely." I am better at the daily organizational stuff, like the bill-paying, the cleaning, the deadlines. But he is infinitely better at making good use of his downtime. While I am googling random shit ("Is Kirk Cameron crazy?"), he is drawing, or teaching himself to program. And when I say "drawing," and "teaching himself to program," I mean he is learning and applying these skills at an almost expert level. Everyime we move (which has been 5 times in the past 13 months), and the sad Crayola Crayon suitcase is dragged from its hiding place, he says, "You should write something." I say, "Yeah..."

So why today? I don't know. I've felt a low-level nausea and panic for the past few days. If I'm being honest, I've felt this way since I was about 9 years old, but some days are worse. The past few days have been pretty significantly worse. I woke up this morning feeling overwhelmed by my thoughts. I don't know how to order them, or how to get away from them, so I'll put them here and maybe tomorrow they will make more sense.

It might just be the weather. I've spent the past 9 years in a cold climate ("the north," is what they call it, but I say that's just a pleasant euphamism for "dreary depths of hell eight months out of the damn year") and the weather from October through May still just seems unholy to me. It seems- wrong. I know there are people who acclimate to the weather after a certain amount of time. I am not one of them. When I bemoan the cold, I will inevitably get, "Aren't you used to it yet?" And I want to scream "NO! I'm not used to it!" In fact every winter seems darker, longer and more oppressive than the last. The early darkness and the frigid air, which inspire some sort of seasonal nostalgia in other people, make me want to hide in my bed and cry.

So I woke up today, exactly one month after I was let go from my job, with another empty day staring me in the face. It's cold, so I don't want to go anywhere, and even if I did, I can't spend the money for lunch, or a coffee, or a movie, or whatever one does in the afternoons when one doesn't have a job to go to. My recent unemployment means that we are trying to get by on Oleg's salary. He is not working as an attorney, because apparently, a 3.3 from the University of Minnesota Law School (a top-twenty school) means you're unemployable. So he's working for less than I made waiting tables in college, at a job that requires only a GED, and which brings him into contact with actual practicing attorneys who are, on a good day, a great deal less intelligent, ethical and dilligent than he is. When we figured in my job (which paid me a draw rather than a salary, and a draw that was considerably less than I made waiting tables at that), together we were making what each of us expected to be making on our own. So it was tight, to say the least. Two people with a combined 400K in student loan debt trying to get by on 80K in Chicago is not easy. And now. Well now...

For some reason this morning I was thinking about New Orleans. About the time I spent there. God, I was such a baby. So young! And when I thought about New Orleans, I couldn't help but wonder what that baby-self would think of where I'm at now. I think she would be sad. Disappointed. To say this is not what I expected to find thirteen years onward would be a gross understatement. I listened to "Tangled up in Blue" which is one of a number of songs that will forever remind me of New Orleans. Of a dark bar with my friend Griper closing down at dawn. Of humid nights, and goofy philosophical conversations fueled by unholy combinations of cheap burgundy wine and, well.... Of potholes and pigeon shit. Of a certain kind of certainty that lasts a couple of seasons and then disappears like ash. I wondered what all the intervening struggles over the years have been about. Seven years of higher education since then and I know a lot less than I did. Seven years of higher education and all of the debt that goes along with that, and my prospects look dimmer than ever. It's not right. I will talk more about New Orleans, I'm sure, at a later date.

I found something in my blue Tiffany box (no, not from a gift of jewelry, but crystal candlesticks that my mother bought me a few years ago) that I keep notes and cards in. It was a note.

Stacie,

Hey babe, what's up? Well I wasn't serious when I asked Cory out. Did she think I was? In your note you said that I probably didn't care that your life isn't very good. Well I do care. I care alot about you. :) Are you going to the 8th grade dance? I was kind of wondering if you would go with me just as friends. Ya know? I guess that sounds stupid to you. If you don't I understand. Why do you hate your father? I used to really hate my parents, I guess it was my dad that I hated more than my mom. My dad used to hit me for know (sic) reason, but we've gotten alot closer. So know (sic) I love my dad and my mom. My life is fine know (sic), there's this one beautiful girl that I really like and I'm pretty happy I guess. Do you like Bart Simpson? I do. He's my hero. Well I gotta cruz. So I'll c-ya later. W/B/please. I love you.

Love,
Matt

PS you shouldn't hate, you should only dislike.
PSS I can't imagine you hating anyone.

This note makes me sad for a couple of reasons. First, I obviously said "no" to this boy, because I clearly remember that I went to the 8th grade dance with my friends. Was I kind when I turned him down? I'm a lot of things, but I'm not cruel....I don't know if I can say that with any certainty about my 8th grade self however. God, I hope I was kind to him. What makes me saddest though, is that I have no recollection of this Matt boy. Zilch. None. And since I talked to him about my father and my home life (which is not something I recall ever discussing with even my best friends at that age) we were obviously close enough that I confided in him. It's crazy and troubling that I can't remember him now.

I think that's it for now. I am trying to feel fortunate that I have a beautiful Mahi Mahi (courtesy of Trader Joe's) defrosting in the refrigerator. I think maybe when you have Mahi Mahi to look forward to for dinner, it's not right to consider yourself anything but blessed, frustrated expectations and comparative failure aside....


The Laundress