Depressing Everyone on the Bandwagon

I suppose it's time to jump on the bandwagon, and mention that NY Times article about 20-somethings.  I suppose it's bad manners to assume you've already read it.  As Stuart Smalley (nee, Al Franken) said, "...when you assume, you make an ass out of Uma Thurman."
So, the basic points of it were that the 20-somethings has become a time to discover yourself, a time to process adulthood, rather than being a full-fledged adult.
...You should probably just set an afternoon aside and read it for yourself.

I left that article behind feeling ... more lost than ever, I suppose.
I'm in the last gasp of my 20's, and have less idea of what to do now than ever before.
I want to change the world, but I don't want that to change my world.
I want to be entrenched in a job I love, but still have plenty of vacation time.
I want to make a real difference, so long as I'm paid amply.
I want to write stories, but I can barely keep this blog afloat.

If you've ever been in the same boat, let me ask you something:  Did you get out?  Did you sink or swim?  How did you find what you wanted to do.

And so long as we're talking articles, how 'bout this one in Psychology Today, addressing the bad habit we all have of comparing up.  With Facebook, and MySpace (oh, that jilted love), and Twitter galore, we have a barrage of fabulous lives to compare ours to, and how could they ever live up?  The article's point was that well-adjusted people don't compare themselves to anyone other than themselves.

The whole bit made me feel pretty ok, for about 2 minutes, until I thought what about siblings?  If ever there was a fair comparison to make, wouldn't it be to siblings?  Someone a similar age, with similar opportunities, and even the same damn gene pool?  
My mum once told me it's not fair to compare myself to my brother, but I couldn't think of anything more fair.
My brother the doctor.
My brother, the life of the party, the social butterfly.
I mean, the man gets paid to take summers off and visit friends.
And if I don't compare myself to him, how about all the other fabulous people I know?  I don't need to venture as far as tabloids to find amazing lives.  They're all right here, sharing their city with me.

I've never lived overseas, like some friends, nor have I started my own business, or biked an entire coastline.  All these amazing people and their stories, and it's so hard not to feel like an anchor.
I remember that feeling of possibility, and for my life, I don't know where it's gone.  I used to swear I would never work in some office, on some menial job, and now I'm pushing my resume just to be allowed a cubicle and some grey lighting.

Will another article be written, giving hope to those of us (almost) out of our 20's, saying that the 30's are a time of self-discovery and fulfillment?  Or is this it?  Have I wasted it all away?

In Which I Celebrate My New Year

It's that time of year again.  Only a few weeks left before all those horrible, awkward looking bipeds kids running around have to go back to school.  I know my teacher friends are probably groaning about that sad fact, having to pack up their book clubs, put away their sleeping bags, and individual styles for something a little more teacher-ish, but to them I say: pfff!  Don't care!

Because I always loved this time of year.  When an entire section in Target gets deemed the "Back to School" section, positively over-flowing with new notebooks, pens, pencils, highlighters, etc.

I don't remember the last time I actually made a purchase from one of these aisles, but they still get me positively aglow.  All that yellow, blue, and pink stickey paper.  Those fancy mechanical pencils.  The idea that this year is going to be better than the last.  This year I will learn and even excel.  I will make new friends, and participate in exciting activities.  I will run that friggin mile, and I won't be as slow as last year.

I suppose the back to school season is like my New Year's.  All these promises to myself, and unspoken hopes can live in the days before it all actually starts.  Before that first day, when you realize the popular girls, and not so popular girls, and even the unpopular girls, still won't talk to you.  Before you come to grips with the sad fact that you're still considered just as much of a freak now as you were at the beginning of the summer.  When you buy yourself a pretty outfit, stare at yourself in the mirror, and practice conversations with your invisible potential friends, and you can really believe they will like you back.

These are the days when everything feels like an opportunity, and there's nobody around to tell you different.

Huzzah for Reality Television....Just Not Really

The boyfriend and I have been studiously following Last Comic Standing this summer.  Watching reality television seems to go against his very thread of being (he still has to ask me what a Snookie is), but he'll sit through anything involving comedians.  We share that feeling of love for anybody who has dedicated their lives to making us laugh.
Tonight we watched the season finale, desperately rooting for Tommy Jonnigan.  I'm sure I didn't spell that correctly, but nobody ever said I was the guy's publicist.  We sat through an hour of pure hell waiting for that final judging, fingers crossed.
Part of that pure hell involved a few minutes of Gloria Gaynor singing "I Will Survive."
She's the ultimate one-hit-wonder, I announced.
Still, how can you not love that single woman anthem?  Here's how: she changed the lyrics a bit to add some "praise god" lines.  Ick!  I forget the actual lyrics, since I was too busy choking on my vomit, but it was basically, "yay Jesus."
I feel betrayed.  My single woman anthem can now only be sung by Cake....or I'll just have to listen to Beyonce's "Put A Ring On It"...or whatever it's called.
*sigh*
oh, and spoiler alert, Tommy Jonnagin didn't even win.  *double sigh*

The short end of it is this: if I'm going to see lyrics changed, I'm gonna watch this girl.

Evel Knievel Don't Got Shit

Sorry beforehand, for the poor writing.  This is a bit of a manic update about yesterday's activities.

The boyfriend and I went for a romantic walk through a graveyard yesterday, ignoring all signs that said dogs must be on a leash. Mountain View cemetary is really the place to go see outrageous mausoleums, and given that Watson is the home-schooled dog, we didn't think it was right to deprive him of the history lesson. He ran about like the uncultured idiot he is.
In fact, as we stopped to look over a blocked off drop to concrete, noting the awesome graffiti plastered on the sides, he idiotically ran right off the wall.
It was another of those moments, when time slows down, and you hear yourself scream, and you have time to think of all the consequences before he even hits the bottom. After about 3 lifetimes, he finally did hit the concrete...on his back...25 feet below. he screamed, even louder than me, and kept trying to get up and walk. The boyfriend took off, running around, looking for a place to get through and climb down to the dog. I used up all the calm I had left and found a spot in the fence he could climb through, and spent the rest of the calm telling him, "Just take your time. Pick him up like I showed you, and go nice and slowly. It's ok."
We tried walking him to where we parked the car, switching off carrying him, but at 50+ pounds on uneven footing, it just wasn't working. When he was in the boyfriend's arms, I held his head and pet him gently. When I pulled away, I noticed there was blood all over my arm.
Oh my god....he's bleeding.
Go get the car.  I'm going to stay here with him.  There's no way we can carry him all the way back.
So I ran.  And the whole time I thought about Harry Dresden, in the Dresden Files books, when he always talks about how he practices running, just in case.  And I always think shaddup!
But now I was wishing I'd heeded his fictional wizardly advice, because I was out of breath and only halfway there, the hill still ahead of me.  I trudged up the hill, all the time thinking about this little puppy Watson was, and how our only job was to make sure he didn't kill himself.  I was failing my job.
Got to the car, jumped in and started driving before taking the time to think of the route.  This is an extensive cemetary, and no road leads in the direction you'd think.  Took me forever, and questioning two startled strangers, before I found them again.
Then: traffic.  Fucking East Bay traffic.  Like the world moves in between 4 and 7 pm on weekdays.  Goddam nightmare, is what it is.
We have to drive to Berkeley for the emergency room.  Watson goes onto the table and starts shaking, the shock wearing off.  The doctor comes in and hears what happened, checking his ears, his heart, his bones.
"He's ok.  He's extraordinarily lucky.  I can't believe it, but not even a broken bone."
And I start crying.  Big time.  It didn't occur to me till then that I was convinced that Watson was that dog that you only get a short time with, but shows you how good dogs can be.  He's a good boy.
The doc gives him a couple shots for the pain and warns us he's going to whine because he doesn't understand why he's all spin-ny.  "No jumping.  No activity for a couple days."

We actually bought him steak.  Cheap steak....but we're vegans, and this is a big deal.  This is LOVE, people.  I cut it into strips and froze it, so when he gets extra sore he can have a meatsicle.
Dog, being the indestructible smarty-pants he is, has learned already to just whine an extra bit and he gets steak.
He's a good boy.  A lucky boy.  A sore boy.

Old-Timey San Francisco

Speaking of hipsters (weren't we?), I saw a TON of 'em last night, gathered together like sardines in the Hotel Utah Saloon.  Together, we banged the tables, drank our shots of whiskey, and partook in some banjo-plucking ambiance.  Because nothing says San Francisco circa 2010, quite like a bluegrass band from North Carolina.

The boyfriend and I arrived early, so as to get a good seat against the wall and rub some elbows with those of the elbow patches.  I've never seen so many fedoras and newsboys in the same room, and I half expected them to draw a line and pick their sides.  "I'll have you know, sir, this is an honest to goodness newsboy and I am dressed in my finest herringbone blazer for that touch of irony which you lack."  "Well fuck you, sir.  This is a wool fedora in JULY!  Now, gather 'round, my unnecessarily warm counterparts!  We shall have an ironic standoff!  You people in the newsboys, you can bob together by the stage, because as everyone knows, the real hipsters sit in the back."

I'm not sure where I fit in with this crowd.  I like to think I held my own, there on the sidelines, watching the magic go down.  In the meantime, I enjoyed me some good music.

We went there to support a friend and cheer on his awesome band, Walking in Sunlight.  Please do check them out.  But then stayed for the raucous twang of Emily Bonn & the Vivants, and finished the night off cheering for Chatham County Line.  All 3 acts were stupendous, and did me the favor of transporting me in time.  I felt like I was ensconced in Deadwood, and expected Al Swearengen to make his way into the room, bowie knife in hand.

Too Much to Share, Really

A foreword: this is more personal than I'm comfortable with, but it's real, as far as that goes.  Pouring something out has made me feel better and free of it.  Letting anyone else in goes against my better judgement.  Be warned, is all I'm saying.

I'm 29 now and have been thinking of you recently.  So hard to let go.  Like it'll be breaking off a piece of me.  Me beneath the covers.  You telling me I'm beautiful, and I disagree but believe, because the two can co-exist here.
Saying goodbye to you is saying goodbye to odometers, cold tiles beneath my feet, waves breaking, elton john sung at the top of our lungs, coils of smoke, october nights, first snowfalls, thunderstorms, red plastic cups, driving at night.
I wonder if in the moments I miss you, do you stop walking whatever sidewalk, in whatever city, and all of a sudden think of me?  Do you start to sing Elton John songs?
Or, maybe it's all reverse.  Maybe I get sad because you decided to stop and think of me.

Going for the Grammy

This morning I forewent coffee in favor of health.  I read that caffeine increases stress hormones, which can facilitate in the production of fat.  So, small steps, I thought.
And now, at 5:30 pm, I can tell you it was all a huge mistake.
Not a single interesting thought has entered my head, my preoccupation instead being with how comfortable my bed is and how happy it would make me.
Indeed, the most taxing thing I've done today is practice singing.  Arguably, it was much more taxing for anyone home upstairs, forced to listen to the death rattle below.

Singing is one of my bucket list achievements.  It is shaping up to be a slow, agonizing year towards 30. The dog began to cry in the midst of my octaves.  Believing he needed some bladder relief, I let him out, only to witness his mad dash to freedom.  Instead of trotting to the side yard, as always, he ran so fast down the drive that his front legs caved while the back two continued to push.  All the way to the car, parked on the street.

Once back inside, not even through my first octave, he pulled all the stuffing out of his bed, spun in circles, and then growled.  Puppy is a harsh critic.

How does this all tie in to my lack of coffee?  I have no idea.  Don't say I didn't warn you.