I have an actual, real live interview.

It's this Wednesday. I don't have the job yet but already I'm thinking I will need lots of new workplace shoes and underthings! Also I'm feeling sad that the working from bed phase of my life may be coming to an end. I do all my best writing in bed. I'm wondering if I could put a small mattress, a few pillows and a blanket in my cubicle. And my cat. And a box of cookies. That would be just perfect.

If you have a moment, please send me good interview karma.

I'm grateful. So fucking grateful. Really.

Oh bloggers, what you do to me.

I once heard the author Ethan Canin speak. He said the biggest mistake new writers make is thinking a good character is one who is perfect -- popular, attractive, athletic. Nobody wants to read about people like that he said; they want to read about characters who are flawed. I was a pudgy twenty-year old sitting in the back row. I agreed with him wholeheartedly. (Love me, Ethan, handsome doctor/writer! I'm as flawed as they come.) I still agree and yet, like some form of self flagellation -- an internet hair shirt -- I am drawn to the seemingly impeccable lives of bloggers like Faux Fuschia, The Glamouri, and Da Fashionista.


(Gratuitous photos from aforementioned blogs.)


 
If I'm feeling fat, poorly groomed, unemployed and my house is dirty, I turn to these online "friends" but they are not a salve for my soul; no, they make me feel even worse. They taunt my inadequacies and, like a good codependent, I allow them to. I listen to their tales about the outfits they wore and the parties they went to and the jobs they love and their fab husbands/boyfriends/friends. They appear to be naturally rich and thin. I hate them. And I keep going back for more.


Tiny handful of readers, doesn't my mess of a life make yours seem really good in comparison? Is that not what other people want? Maybe I have the personal blog all wrong. It's not our real lives, it's the lives we aspire to, the ones the photo stylists have already gussied up with fresh flowers and place settings. The dirty socks and cellulite are hidden. I'm afraid the personal blog may go the way of the fashion and home design magazines -- all cheerleader/jock glossy perfection. Frankly, I'm a little disappointed in myself that I lap it up, wishing and wanting something that probably doesn't even exist.


On a super, happy blogger note, I have a phone interview tomorrow!!! OMG! The Universe must have felt sorry for me after that last rant. (Must stop Eileen from spewing any more vitriol publicly. Throw her a bone, fer gawd's sake.)

I shouldn't do this.

Fuck you people who don't call me for an interview. Fuck you for getting my hopes up -- social media for a fashion company? Hell yes! Fuck you for letting me think for a fucking brief second that I, too, could be a productive member of society and not only contribute to the GNP and my own domestic economy but that I might like it. Imagine. How fucking great would that have been? Too fucking great for me apparently.
Fuck you for not even having the manners to send me a form letter email after I took the time to craft a nice letter of introduction and drop a chunk of change on a website so that you could easily view my work. I realize it's possible that I wasn't right for your job, or that you filled it internally, or that you just placed an ad to appease the INS 'cause you really wanted to hire your niece from England, or that you didn't even have a job but placed an ad to see what was kind of employable sots were out there. (And if that's the case, fuck you again.)
Fuck you for making me wish I had become a plumber and putting this fantasy in my head: you are throwing a party for thirty of your best friends including your boss when all your toilets and sinks back up and you desperately call me but I don't answer because I am in Brazil learning to samba because I am rich. Here's why. When you are a plumber everybody needs you and nobody knows how to fix their own pipes (unlike writing, which they teach all of us in school). Plus I only fix the toilets of people whose websites I like. So you are left with a bottle of Drano and a plunger and brackish water threatening to spill out onto your imported tile floors. Fuck you.

It's barking Monday.

The dang chihuahuas won't stop barking today. My crazy neighbor across the street once yelled at me that a barking dog is what sent him to the loony bin. I don't think he's that crazy anymore.

Now you tell me.

I just read this from a list of six ways to improve your marriage on Beyond Blue. (I realize it's a year too late for me but I might get in another relationship someday. Who knows?).

2. One "zinger" will erase 20 acts of kindness. 
It takes one put-down to undo hours of kindness you give to your partner. The key: intimate partners must learn how to manage their anger and control the exchange of negative behavior by finding a way to express the feelings in a constructive manner. Constructive expression of gripes, criticisms, and annoyances is a matter of knowing how to express oneself and choosing the appropriate time and place for the conversation.

Read more: http://blog.beliefnet.com/beyondblue/2010/08/6-steps-to-improve-your-marria.html#more#ixzz0wcFYT1W5

This was basically the MO of my marriage. I learned it from my parents. I NEVER even considered it was wrong or that there could be another way of relating to a person. Lordy.

Two days before this revelation, I was waiting in a doctor's office and since I'd already read "O" magazine, I began flipping through a book, The Emotionally Abusive Relationship. Just a light romp of a read. Like "O", there was a questionnaire: Are you being emotionally abusive? Here's where my formative years of reading my mom's Redbook paid off; I must complete the questionnaire: (I've changed these to past tense for obvious reasons and I haven't included the whole questionnaire. You can get the book if you're that interested.)

Did I secretly disrespect my partner because I felt she -- how gender specific! The book just assumes all abusers are men!-- was weak, inadequate or a pushover?

Did I deliberately get involved with a partner who would allow me to maintain the dominant role in the relationship?

Did I give my partner the silent treatment or withhold affection when he didn't do as I wished?

Did I experience frequent mood shifts, sometimes going from loving to rejecting in minutes? Did I frequently become enraged? Am I often unaware what caused my moods to change but assumed it was something my partner did?

Have I ever thrown objects while in a rage at my partner?

Um, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. And because I answered yes to more than five, it's worse: I've exhibited a pattern of emotional abuse.

Ex's dad was emotionally abusive. Quelle surprise! It's all so obvious in hindsight. If I weren't sober, I'd say this would be a good time to get down with a glass of whiskey. The good news is that now I know. Onward.