Tired. I've started having sympathy exhaustion for myself. Career. Maintenence (whatever it takes to look and feel good). Relationships. I'm starting to believe that the average human being can only handle two, but I know I will drive myself to exhaustion trying to juggle all three.

After securing myself a paycheck and reason to live between the hours of 9:00am and 5:30pm, my thoughts now turn to contructing my days, weeks, months around this time-consuming rock. A natural born planner, I'm looking forward to the structure, a routine I can sink my teeth into. I have reached a point in my life that necessitates a day planner. I can only skip so many dinners with a friend, or miss my little sister's talent nights without feeling like I am lost to their lives, or a complete ass. And, one of the most alluring and educational parts of my new position is the ability to attend depositions and hearings with the attorneys, something I wait for with that anticipation usually reserved for baseball season. With my step mom's cooking classes and birthdays, I have resigned myself to getting a memory assistant. Actually, after spending two weeks blowing off my best friend John 'cause I have already planned something on the days we set to hang out, but forgot, sent me a clear and distinct sign.

I can see my free time shrinking as the days approach job time. No longer can I meander to the gym at anytime; postponing it till after Martha will not do as I will already be sitting behind a desk during that time slot. I'll have to see the man on the weekends, that will also be my sleep-in time, maybe see the friends on week nights, wait that's family time. Maybe incorporate friends and the man time, although that has failed miserably. And the gym? I require at least 4 days of perspiration, guess I will forego sleep for early morning cycling. Which means it will be impossible to sleep in on the weekends 'cause my clock will be off. School. s**t balls, I knew I'd forget something. What about school? When will I study? Do homework? I'm trying to meditate too, when does that fit in? After family time, before teeth brushing, prior to sleep, on weeknights? Like some crazed sudoku of my life, I try endless pieces in different boxes to see if the puzzle computes. So far nothing.

At my previous job I overworked. Frequently 50 and 60 hour work weeks would float me by, fueled by insomnia and bad coffee. I was always up at 4:20 in the morning to go to the gym, and always sit in bed for hours trying to sleep when I got home. Fortunately I lived with a don't-ask-don't-tell roommate that partied continuously. I was also a hermit. My dog was my friend and that was all I wanted. Social gathering were of no purpose, nor were they welcomed. But now, there's the man, and I got my 'boobs of justice' friend that is in constant need of attention and counseling. I love being around my family. And I am unwilling to quit the gym. But, anyone that knows me knows that career comes first, which in this case is goes hand in hand with my schooling. I can't be an attorney without first graduating from college, then law school, and finally passing the bar, no matter how smart I think I am. And try as I might, my Ma refuses to pay for schooling, damn. Guess I just have to appreciate my self-funding schooling more and buy a day planner. But I'm still gonna purposely forget birthdays.

As a javaholic, I am always ready and willing to try new coffees, be them flavors, or different brewing techniques or rare beans. The history channels 'history of coffee' introduced me to Turkish coffee, of which I now love. Basically a shot of espresso triple brewed, mixed with a wee bit of sugar and a variety of spices, it is a delicious kick in the crotch dose of caffeine.

Over the summer, I stumbled upon a turkish restuarant/deli joint down at Pike Place Market during a jazz festival. An authentically old Turkish lady made me a delicious cup of brew in a copper pot as old as she. It was the best Turkish coffee I had ever had, which isn't saying much because there are very few coffee houses that make this type of coffee, mostly because to make it the age-old way takes a while. This morning, meandering down the road, enjoying my freshly brewed Dunkin Donuts coffee (imported from the East Coast), I passed a new cafe boasting a sign reading "Turkish Coffee Professionals." Elbasha Cafe, you have just registered on my cup-o-joe radar, thankyouverymuch. Late today, after grabbing a not-so-delicious-looking Subway turkey wrap, I realize I'm coming up to that cafe. Split second decision and I am berating the lady behind the counter with questions to determine is she really is a turkish coffee professional. Satisfied with her responses ("yes, I make turkish coffee") and deducing that she is probably mediterranean (olive skin and thick dark eyebrows? Check), I order up my coffee.

Speeding down the road the four-ish block to the apartment, my stomach has started the hungry grumble. The coffee has been brought to boiling three times, it's lethal hot and that Subway wrap didn't look too awesome. Besides, my stomach has been careful trained to survive days at a time on go juice, it now thinks coffee is the exclusive and adequate form of sustenance. I keep lifting the teeny cup to my nose, cautiously smelling the cardamon and espresso aroma, trying not to melt my nose with coffee lava. Having not eaten since 9ish, (what happened to the eating every three hours? who knows.) I'm more anticipating the coffee than the meal. Arriving home, scarfing down the wrap so I don't make myself sick with caffiene overload, I tentatively sip my brew. I like coffee luke-warm or stone-cold, so I can pound it fast and get another one. This was fantastic! Gritty at the bottom, smooth and creamy espresso-y goodness combined with a hint of sweetness and spice. And only 5 blocks from the apartment, I have now found a new coffee shop to frequently abuse.

I'm hopped up on my spicy cup of meth, and I feel great!

I GOT THE JOB. Yes siree bob, just got the call, I am a re-employed paralegal, working in the real estate, construction, commercial arenas of law. I can soon buy my own groceries! 2 months and 6 days after my company folded, I have joined the working minions! I think I'll celebrate. With General Tso's Chicken. and Rum.

They have offered me $34k a year, starting Monday March 19th. Full benefits, great office, the work I want. I'm happy. I'm glad I took my time to find a job that I wanted, not just one that would pay the bills. Although, unemployment sucked.

I've got a calf muscle. Like, definition! I saw it. I was contemplating shaving my legs before the gym, or after, evaluating the growth of leg fur when I saw the definition. The back part of the calf, where the calf tapers into the achilles tendon, there is a visible lmark of definition, it's almost like my calf got perkier, like a toosh. In techincal terms, my soleus has become more developed. I've had the line of definition on the side, where the calf and the femur connect, but never the hind part.

In highschool, this is weird, I used to find it so hot when a guy had really defined calves. Even to this day, I like to watch guys wearing shorts walk up stairs. When they have great calves, it looks like the are smuggling a softball just under the skin of their calf. Soccer players, track fields dudes. Oooo. Sheesh that's hot.

Jealousy, probably the most useless emotion someone can have, wreaks havoc on relationships. I've never been bit by the jealousy bug. Of course, I have twinges, but they have become less frequent than in my youth, and I'm pretty successful in obliterating any signs of jealousy. Not true for a good friend of mine. Late into last night I was pestered with a cell phone that would not stop receiving text messages from a friend in a fit of jealous rage. Myspace is being the bringing of bad news, her boyfriend has *gasp!* a busty skinny blonde as one of his top friends. hopping hoes Batman!!

I'm not good at counselling jealousy. I don't suffer. She does. Ranting and raving, I just don't relate. This morning, trying to be a better friend than I was at 10 o'clock, I send the olive branch text: "How are you? Still mad? Did you talk ...." blahblah. She calls, we talk. Trying to get me to feel what she is feeling, she does the whole "how would you feel if you boyfriend had a picture of a skinny ass brunette with her double whammies hang out in his top friends on myspace? You know, the type to totally get his rocks off with?" Hmmm, checking the 'ol Devil-space, I think "You mean, besides me?" but don't verbalize that thought. No other chocolate haired ladies with enormous glands for the hands, but now he has a blonde with her big 'ol kettle drums hanging out. "I dunno, I guess if he's gonna cheat, he'll cheat. Nothing I can do about that. Insha'Allah. and nice baby pillows." In an effort to challenge her daft boyfriend, she posted a pic of her with some massive crack-of-God cleavage, jumbo queen jewel sight. Do I want that on my boyfriend's page? *shrug* who cares. I find it funny now that I know why it is there, and the damage it is doing to her relationship. (I do not now, or ever find the destruction of a relationship funny)

In her attempt at making her boyfriend jealous by what I will forever call "the boob pic, (or maybe 'the prisoner of playtex prison' pic)" she went to her friend's devilspace pages and posted comments explaining the love jugs. In these comments, she called his lady friends sluts and hoes. In her mistake, she thought she was sending a private message. Many phone calls have been made to me wondering how her man knew she called them these probably wholesome Christian ladies (yeah, right. who is wholesome now days?) sluts, hoes, etc. Upon explaination of the clear-as-day comments with the works 'sluts,' 'hoes,' 'jealous,' and 'boobs', I could feel the heat through the phone from her burning red cheeks. So funny.

So maybe she learned. Probably not. I told her that the jealous was a by-product of her own insecurity. How can you have a successful relationship when it's riddled with jealousy, attempts at making the other jealous, arguments, power struggles and a complete lack of fun? I don't know, I've been asking myself that for about 3 of their 3+ year relationship. As for the pointer sister's pic, it's gonna be infamous. Who doesn't love boob euphemisms?

I'm putting an end to the dragging of the heels on employment. I was completely devastated when my company closed. I worked far harder than I should have. It was really proud of the progress I had made, becoming a paralegal, the knowledge and skills I had gained. It made me really depressed when I became unemployed suddenly, threw off my daily routine, jarred my existence. Hopefully I will learn from my mistake and not invest my entire self in my future position. I have one of those mentalities that believes you are nothing with a career. I have the tendency to sacrifice everything to be successful at that; family, friends, health. I am also one not to learn easily from mistakes. I may have to re-play this career role several times before I heed my own advice.

I am on (what I hope to be) the fast track to employment. After being jobless and damn-near broke for 2+ months, I have started pushing my resume so that I may start bringing in some cash, maybe buy my own groceries. That and I have managed to rack up another $700 in credit card debt. Ass-sucky because I just paid that bitch off before the company folded.

The employment search started last week. I sent my resume to 2 law firms and one financial consulting firm. I was taking it slow. I have gotten three call backs, one from each company. Today I have a phone interview, tomorrow my second interview with one law firm and a first interview with the other. I'm stoked. Either I have the gift of an eloquent and articulate coverletter, my resume kicks all other resumes butts, or my power of attraction (thank you Oprah) is working. I like to think all three are working to provide me with a high-paying job.

It has almost hit Seattle. It's friggen beautiful outside. Mild, sunny. This is picnic weather.

To my delightful surprise, MLB spring training is on. Not that I haven't been anticipating it, waiting with embarassing high enthusiasm. Teetering on the edge of my baseball couch that resides in my head. After the superbowl, I felt lacking. I mean, who watches basketball anymore? I almost fell off the couch when I saw "MLB" on one of the ESPN channels last week. It almost snuck up on me. Now, I know that spring training is no pre-determiner for a club's season, but I always ALWAYS hinge my hopes for the Mariners on their spring training. Like an MLB farmer's almanac. I've been running around too much to actually catch a Mariner's game, but when I arrived at the gym yesterday, I was so psyched to see the Tigers and the Yanks battling it out. Got to see Verlander (I've missed you my sweet-armed Tiger.), saw a little A-Rod, got a glimpse at my Pudge, Ivan Rodriguez. I was annoyong some die-hard weightlifters by dilly-dallying on the machines I was using. I was timing my sets around pitches when I could fully see the tv, or timing my sets around commercials when I couldn't. I know it's almost spring when I can watch MLB spring training while working out.

memories....

Remember when everyone was on here all work day?
Remember the chat?
Remember the constant comments?
Remember Astronomy picture of the day?
Remember that creepy house wife?
Remember when Brian wasn't having a baby?
Remember when Andrew used to blog, despite the depressing content?
Remember Lindzy?
Remember the creepy?

Goodtimes

Yea, I rule. You know. The class rocked, no one cared that I was 5'2, and the youngest person in the room. We pedaled to Ru Paul, I made people put on their 'determined' faces when we were 'attacking.' (You imagine a group of cyclists have passed you, you have to attack and pass them.) We did intervals, I made them call out. I was the sweatiest and most red-faced in the group. It's friggen hard to shout and do spin sprints at the same time! I bopped, I encouraged. I think I did alright. I got a lot of positive feedback. Some people said I catered to a more advanced group, so I have to take that into consideration. Yep.

The highlight was after class. I was walking out of Pike Place market with my bounty of fish for dinner and a flying rat flew right in front of my head. Without thinking, I knocked the winged vermin right outta the sky! Cat like reflexes! It'll teach all those damn birds to watch out. (No birds were harmed in my demonstration of superiority)

Come to think of it, this pigeon looked suspiciously like the bird on the pier that Moonz was talking shit to. I think that bird tried to retaliate on me.

I'm coaching a spin class tomorrow. Just got the call. I'm sub-ing for the sub coach. So, I'm the sub's sub. The regular sub is actually the hardest spin coach I have ever biked with. I can't believe it. I actually can't belive he thinks I can sub for him.

This sub had his own class for 6 weeks, it was an Athlete's Only Spin Bootcamp. It was supposed to help get people ready for spring. It kicked my puny butt. Like jello legs and light headed. Last Wednesday was the last class and he told this story about a girl who popped into the a.m. spin class and never left. How he saw her change from a wuss on a bike getting winded during the easiest spin class at the gym, to a person he would be proud to call an athlete. He was talking about me, and he started the Athlete Only Spin Bootcamp for me. He promptly made me get off my bike and give him 5 push-ups for missing the previous class. (He called me an athlete! I don't think I've been an athlete since I was swim team captain.) I pressured him ever since he sub-ed for that morning class and pretended to be a drill sergeant. He ran us through a bike bootcamp experience. Well, he was a Marine drill sergeant. And I loved that class. I have to say, spin has changed me.

I'm a sub's sub spin/cycle coach. I'm grinning like a loon right now. But there are actual cyclers in that class. Like Lance Armstrong wanna-be's. Now I'm nervous. Maybe I need a new cool spin coach outfit. Something that demands respect. In red.

I guess I'll have to get my certification if I want to continue doing this. I'm nervous.

I had the craziest dreams last night. I counted 3 intense horror dreams, it was pure insanity in my head last night.

One of them, I was stranded in the middle of the ocean with a floating tower of cardboard boxes, to which I was holding onto. It was overcast, I couldn't see a single piece of land on any horizon and I was with someone I didn't know. I did even know how I got out there. The guy I was stranded with had a heart condition, this is unspoken, yet understood. Out of no where he's weilding a cleaver and has the idea to cut my heart out, to save himself. Water chase scene ensues. I'm diving underwater trying to stay away from him, all the while knowing I need to preserve my energy if I'm going to make it ashore, assuming shore comes about. So I'm trying to drown this guy, but I end up almost drowning myself. Then I wake up 'cause I had to use the bathroom badly. It was intense! So vivid. I don't know where my brain gets this stuff from.

I have been following the Tyra Banks People magazine/weight-freak-out with mild interest for a while. I saw the video clip on YouTube and told everyone I knew about it, well, everyone close to me. I got a myriad of responses about it; applause to her, criticizing her, everything. This morning, she put her lanky butt in that red bodysuit (she wore it on a different People mag. cover), dressed everyone in the audience in the same body suit, and had all the women put their body weight on the front. The result was an attempt to create a powerful image of empowered women, flaunting their scale number with disregard. A visual “So what?!?!” in Tyra terms. All these women were supposed to walk away from that show feeling like they aren’t defined by their scale, their weight does not determine their worthiness. It’s a strong and responsible message promoted by a woman who had previously broke boundaries and stereotypes when she became a model. In a dramatic slap in the face to major media, she had the women peel their numbers from their chests, smash them up and throw them away, telling them they are not defined by those numbers. Slightly before I threw down the t-shirt I was meticulously folding to join in this weight anarchy, reality set in.


It’s a hard diet pill to swallow when I am trying to decide is Tyra is wearing the low, medium or super-high body slimming, fat smoothing suit under that red ensemble. Just what kind of shimmer powder did use down the front of her legs to lengthen and define, and what happened to the cellulite that was so prevalent on the first People magazine cover that set off this rampage? How many hours did she sit in the makeup chair getting her hair done and false eyelashes applied? Does she feel she is an accurate representation of a real woman? While I am all for a weight empowerment movement, how about having a recovering anorexic on the show? Considering you never pull yourself completely out of the self-destructive, overly critical mind frame, any anorexic will do. Or a bulimic. Or how about that all-encompassing disorder EDNOS - eating disorder not otherwise specified - which includes binge eaters and people who sway violently throw multiple disorders. In light of dying models, starving themselves for the catwalk, this is a positive message. Until you remember the village-raising-a-child lesson. I’m all for Tyra parading healthy women on stage, telling stories of life-change Tyra experiences, hell Tyra, we applaud you already. But until majority of media, majority of society promotes a healthy body image, we aren’t going anywhere. All she is doing is stroking her own ego. Telling herself that 161 is her healthy body weight, then asking others to validate her conclusion. I’m not doubting her, she looks healthy. But you can’t have one show on weight empowerment and expect the issue to be resolved. Eating disorders and societal beliefs don’t change overnight AND they go hand in hand. I wake up in the morning thinking I’m a healthy weight. And just as easily as I make that decision, I make the decision that I haven’t reached that elusive “good enough” stage. You need individual and societal re-wiring. Just like a single woman alone didn’t start and end the women’s movement, she enlisted assistance, appealed to people common sense and human decency to start a movement, or multiple people working together towards a common liberating goal. It drives me crazy that someone, be it Tyra or someone else, can climb on stage after being called fat and demand restitution. After spending her entire life being praise for her svelte figure and good genes, she deserves an apology? Um, no. That girl who starved herself to death deserves the apology. Women and men in mental institutions trying to correct their horrible misconceptions on the perfect body deserve an apology. The 8-year-old girl who thinks she fat and doesn’t want lunch deserves an apology, along with her mom, the constant dieter. Tyra deserves a head tip in acknowledgement. Applaud the people who have been through the looking glass of society’s weight persecution and, in their own way, shape and form, try to make it back to healthy. I stumble, fall and regress. We all do.

You get no sympathy.

My father's wife's family is in town. My pops isn't my biological dad, he's my step dad, so his wife is my step-ish mom, Hopie. Anyway, her fam is in town: sister and her two daughters (teens) and Hopie's Ma. Combined with my two little sisters and myself, it's a large group of boisterous women; everyone except my sisters and myself are from Chicago, and everyone except me are Jewish. So it's a bunch of loud Jewish Chicago transplanted ladies. And, they are vegan. It's a motley crew. I adore them.

My little heart strings are tugged when Hopie's fam comes to town. My family lives on the East coast, and we rarely talk, even more rarely see each other. It's sad, but I have and will remain the black sheep of my family. I just have a different goal in life, different way of living than my family. They have family dinners, see each other on a weekly basis, hang out, blah blah. My Ma calls me; she misses me, wishes she had the opportunity to spoil me the way she spoils my brother. She sees him all the time, she can take him to dinner, drink some booze with him, buy him gifts, pay for major car repairs on his Yota. I haven't seen my Ma since I had major surgery, in 2004, I think. And yeah, I miss it, but I wouldn't want to sacrifice myself to be there. Which is what I feel I would have to do if I lived near my family. Even though I'm biologically related to that family, I have never really thought that my family misses my presence during family get-togethers. I don't think that I would contribute the way my brother or mother contributes. That's not sad to me, it's reality.

But. Hopie's fam makes me feel like I am an intrigal part of the whole. I hung out with my 16-year-old 'cousin' yesterday, we shopped it up and bopped around. Goodtimes. That and the family dinner I attended, I figured I had filled their quota of Chy-time. But this morning Hopie's Ma called me to invite me out to the aquarium. And she invited me to stay with her in Sacramento, even planning a route and good time to drive down. They want to know what I'm doing this weekend, are they going to see me again before they leave? I can't express how that made me feel. The fam.

I'm making arroz con pollo. My face is on fire because I keep touching it after having chopped a few jalapenos that have made their way into my pot of deliciousness. In culinary school, you were supposed to wear latex gloves when dealing with peppers. You were supposed to wear gloves and a dust mask if dealing with habaneros. One day I was pulverizing some dried habaneros without a dust mask, and sniffed a huge nose full of habanero dust. It was so painful. I thought my nose was melting off. You would think I would learn. Capsaicin will get me everytime.

My (short) first name is Chy, as in pronounced 'shy,' like a shy person. Until today I thought I had heard it all. All the pick up lines for my name (nothing to be shy about baby, I don't bite. *gag gag*), all the spoofs (are you shy, Chy?), the songs (Too shy-shy, hush hush, eye to eye. thank you Kajagoogoo), everything. My name is huge to me. Long and unique, very few people know it's entirety, even fewer can pronounce it properly. I feel it is necessary to butcher those that butcher my name. Big pet peeve of mine. So much so that I take the time to spell my three letter name to everyone who needs to know it. I don't want 'Shy' written on my starbucks cup, or 'Shy' in some doctor's appointment book. I'm anal about my name.

Secure in my belief that no one can say anything new related to my name, i was completely taken of guard today. When my friend Meg called the salon to schedule our pedicure appointment, she says: "..and my friend Chy, spelled C-H-Y." pause, then "No, she's not." Figuring it was the same 'ol same 'ol every unimaginative ya-hoo says, I turn to her and say, "I'm not shy" in my most sarcasm, condecending and heavily speech-impeded voice. Laughing she tells that the gal on the line, after writing my name, said "Oh. He asian, huh?"

What? Wait, after 23 years of retards thinking themselves comedic, a lady with broken english and no highschool diploma spoofs me? I am no longer a Kajagoogoo song, I am an asian dude who likes pedicures. Go figure.

I frequent bikram yoga because it makes me feel better. Regular 'ol yoga is difficult for me because I cannot focus enough. Somehow the intense heat and difficult poses really center me. You can think of nothing more than getting the pose right and sinking deeper into the stretch. All to the mantra of "fuck(breathe in) fuck(breathe out) fuck(breathe in) fuck(breathe out)."

NEVER- tell your best friend you secret sure-shot fart button. The result will be your friend inpersonating you farting uncontrollably during your attempted moment of zen. Moment of zen's are not for hysterical laughing.

NEVER- wear vanilla scented deodorant to class. While deliciously alluring after immediate application, reminding you of vanilla-rum pina coladas, once mixed with your own body odor will take on the nauseating scent of flamboyantly musty cheap $10 vanilla musk parfum. Sweaty vanilla ass does not promote mediation.

NEVER- wear speedos if you are fifty-plus pounds overweight and then do ab work during the pre-class zen moment. No one is impressed by your tolerance to the dry heat. I silently vomit in my mouth when you pale blue-veiny cellulite stomach compresses with every bicycle crunch you attempt, your black nylon speedo disappearing beneath your doughnut filled lard.

NEVER- forget to wear underwear. Class is not a free show for the creepy dude in the back. While you are supposed to look only at yourself, it is quite disturbing knowing some chick's hairy beaver is attempting to escape her cotton shorts. Doubly disturbing after thinking she had a small ferret taped to her underarms, only to realize said lady does not own a razor.

NEVER- wear less than one bra. Smothering yourself in your own sweat drenched bosom while compressing your stomach into your thighs while bent over does not assist in focus or breathing. Rabbit pose is not for the buxom. Actually, almost any pose is not for the buxom

NEVER- eat a handful of lip-shaped cinnamon gummies four and half hours prior to class and think that is enough food to sustain you for the day. Lack of food, hundred and ten degree heat, fragrance of man feet and locked joints are not conducive to consciousness. The effect of above mentioned combonation is a bikram yoga faux pas and loss of dignity.

NEVER- wear a full face of makeup to class. Class is not a social in which you will meet a hot guy. Yoga men are gay, and do you really want someone with more flexiblity than you, who weighs less than you? When your face is melting off and you look like Marilyn Manson I will laugh during savasana. And you will get pimples.

My maturity has really gotten the best of me. I'm putting my new body work addition on the back burner. Hopefully temporarily. But for me, outta sight, outta mind. In the next week I have family coming in to stay a while, and friends visiting. I should spend the money on the friends and family. You know, memories and crap. I maybe stuck with these damn scars for the rest of my life.

The Italian cooking class I am assisting is going famously. It has turned into a test of Chy's patience to NOT squeeze men's brains into a foamy grey substance seeping from their ears. I'm making progress. In 3 weeks I will be so zen around ignorant fools. Actually, it has more taught me how to not micromanage people. I will be an amazing ruler of the world with these skills. And I'll make a mean fococcia.

The blob below my knees is slowly melting into a calf. That's right, a muscle. I'm proud. My calf hasn't looked this good since highschool soccer. And, I have what you can loosely term a 'waist.' That elusive beast has never been seen around before. Unemployment is doing wonders for my body.

I'm celebrating Valentine's Day by moving through 26 poses, twice each, in a hundred and sixteen degree heat. I'm gonna sweat like a caught child molester, while breathing like a banshee. I call it the 7th layer of hell. Other's call it Bikram yoga. We all have our own ways of celebrating love.

My brother broke up with his girlfriend. I am so happy. She was a succubus. Soon he'll hopefully move back to Seattle after his electrician's apprenticeship. Then we will resume the reign of Chy and Nate. I miss my brother.

Cup-o-Joe. My dad is not a morning person, not that I blame him. Years of caffiene addiction has zapped any resemblance of humanity out of my dad in the wee-hours of the morning. Little more than a domesticed primate (which we all are, basically) at 5, 6, 7 in the morning, we generally do not communicate short of me saying "morning," and him calling me a goddess for making coffee for him. I love my dad.

Yesterday my dad asked about my weekend and I gave him the day play by play. Friday fine. Made chicken paprikash for the man. Saturday, nose stuffy. Touch of depression. Ate out for dinner. Sunday, great. Made lasagna for the man, stayed in all day. This morning he finally digested what I had said, and questioned me about Saturday's mild depression. While making lunch for my little lady sisters, I gave him the synopsis. I'm unemployed. I have no money. Nothing to do with my days. I am unaccustomed to daily nothingness.

Fifteen minutes later, he absorbed my comments. Finding me, he said that some people feel that their worth as a person is equated to how much they make(money). Point taken. This is definitely me.

For the past year and a half, I have dedicated my life to my previous job. I really really really liked my job. Disliked the people, liked what I did. I was good at it. It combined all the good qualities I possess: people person, good with numbers, fast learner, quick, and a natural born bullshitter. I learned that I have a knack for both tax law and IRS agents. Nothing gives you a heady feeling quite like outsmarting the government at their own revenue game. Nothing gives you a sense of accomplishment like helping those that cannot help themselves. My job gave me a daily purpose, and a sense of fulfillment in a time when I couldn't provide these things to myself. It gave me heaps of money, which I gladly took, spent and reaped my material pleasures. I earned every dollar I made with the grey matter sitting on top of my neck. (I am incredibly vain, yet I hate to feel I am being judged by my exterior. Many a client were taken aback once they met me because I'm not a book-worm looking mousy nerd, and I am young.) I got the job done, no questions asked, just did it. I was successful. Without my job, I am lost. And poor.

Without a job, my goal is school. I've got great legal experience, now I need the schooling behind it. But I am finding school not as emotionally and financially rewarding as my job once was. In fact, it's not financially rewarding at all. I still crave that bi-weekly paycheck. It's tax season and I crave to be in the throw of hysterical chaos as people try grasp the elusive comprehension of taxes. I thought I'd work some menial job to pay my cell phone bill and gym membership while I scrapped by as a student. Now I know whipping up espresso creations are not going to cut it for me. Yet, I don't want to sacrifice academics for another consuming postion. I am no spring chicken, getting a late start on school is not my idea of a good idea. I am finding balance difficult to achieve.

I have bitten the bullet and am returning to school. This has been a arduous process, just getting myself out of the house and onto school property was akin to ripping off a limb. I don't know why. As soon as I sat down with an advisor, told them my long-term goal, and a very broad shorter term goal, everything was smooth sailing.

An attempt is being made towards an associates of art. I choose art because it was the most broad associates I could get as a four-year transfer. I considered a business associates degree. I strongly feel that business education is highly important, not just in the academics, but in life. As a female, I feel it's even more important. And with a goal of corporate law, I feel it will be incredibly beneficial. I also have some vague aspirations at entrepreneurship, so any business course will be well purchased. But, I don't want to be locked down to the somewhat narrow field of business, so I choose art because I will waste my electives on business courses. It helps me to plan this crud out.

Anticipating difficulties, I reasonably doubt any true academic strenuousness till I am required to take my LSATs and apply to law school. How am I going to pay for law school? AHHHH! How am I going to support myself during the first year of law school? Typicaly, freshman law students are not allowed to have jobs during their first year. The first year is when they try to weed out the intellectually unfit students. I'm gonna start in with the oh geezs now.

I refuse to think past my BA, though. It's taken me so long to return to school because I over thought the process. Now I just have to go one quarter at a time. My natural impatientness and prideful demeanor lead me to believe I should not have to attend the first two years of school. Unfortunately no. I have to pay my dues, no matter how big my ego is. I can't start to convey my revulsion towards ignorance. Teaching to the most ignorant person in the class does not further the human race. Ahhhhh! College! hurray

Follow-up
I went pal-ing with my friend as a prelim to commiting to the tattoo and she ended up under the needle. First tatttoo shop, first artist we talked to, she was pulling down her pants and sweating with anticipation. (Side note: her coverup in on the right hip, nothing triple x-rated going on.) The hippy tatttoo dude didn't even give her an idea of what he was going to permanently add to her body, she just laid down, squirmed and babbled about how bad this was going to hurt. Additional side note: the above mentioned gal has a half-back, i.e. a tattoo covering her entire lower back. Why she was worried about a coverup on the hip, a perdominately fatty area, I don't know.

Two hours later and a Webster dictionary's worth of heinous comments and death threats to baby seals and small children, we were walking down the street, she freshly tatt'd. So much for patience.

No tattoo yet for me. Truthfully, I wanted to see how well the hippy dude (he swore the hair was 'rock hair,' after many comments about granola bars and hemp, the guy threatened me with pain) performed. My two additions are very very easy, but I don't care how easy it is, I want a great artist. I'm satisfied with his work, although I would require additionally time for complete color coverage. After working on my friend, who cursed him and squirmed like a blond jazzercise teacher, I'm sure he'll sigh a breath of relief with me. At least, that was his comment. (High pain tolerance)

I'm sticking with the orginal theme of my body, which is that I am a girl and prefer to have girl-ish tattoos. Also sticking with the 'it is my body, I will do as I please' theme. I'm adding three blood-red cherry blossoms to my lower back tattoo, and three white-with-red-tinged-edge cherry blossoms to the left inner hip to cover up my scarring. The hip ones will be teeny, about the size of the head of my pinky, the back ones will be the size of the head of my thumb. I decided not to add to my upper back because of styling, the significant meaning it holds and with the knowledge that anything added will have a color contrast due to age. My low back was never finished, this will be my way of calling it good. I'm excited. Early next week will be my time.

Now, if I can avoid any new horrible events, I won't have a need for more tattoos. I'm making the affirmation right now to stop after these tattoos. My tattoos are the anti-bottling of interal emotions. I put them on my skin so I don't have them inside me, eating me up. I don't want huge gawdy additions, obstructing my body. My friend has some really big tattoos. The hip coverup is about the size of my hand, and a completely solid piece. Of course there is the half back also. I prefer more organic looking additions, or something that compliments my skin and body, not detracts from it.

On another note, I decided to re-pierce my conches while there. The conch is the inside spiral of the ear. I had them both done years ago, but when I enlisted in the Navy, I had to remove them. They healed and I have no piercing. I've always regretted that, they were my favorite piercings and took two years before they stopped being painful. They were so small, it was difficult for anyone to notice they were there, which is why I liked them.

Tattoos and piercings are an addiction like none else.