Knowing who your friends are (and who’s just trying to scam you).

Last week I saw what looked like an innocent Facebook post. An old acquaintance (I’m talking elementary school) posted that her goal was to get in shape in time for the holidays and inquired if there were any like minded people out there. For those of you following along at home, you know that ‘lose weight’ is on my (rather long) to-do list so I clicked on her status and commented as such. What resulted was a tiresome game of keep away centered around yet another ponzi scheme. You know the drill, ‘Oh, you’re looking to lose weight? You should check out this awesome program I found. I just joined yesterday and already I’ve lost 100 pounds! By the way, their hosting this awesome party on Saturday, it’s in North Dakota but everyone there is amazing, the head guru is going to personally transform the lives of everyone there. Totally worth giving up your entire weekend.’ Sigh. Really? People my age are still doing this? Seriously?? The ‘get rich by scamming your friends’ thing is for your late teens, when your only options are retail, food service, or cut-co. By 30 you should have a real job. Or at least pretend you have a real job. When people ask what you do it SHOULD NOT involve the buzz words ‘life changing’, ‘mentor’, or ‘low introductory rate.’ In fact, the only ‘buzz words’ you should be using at 30 are ‘lifestyle’, starter home’, or ‘family planning’. And if you are re-connecting on facebook you should probably avoid topics that involve attempting to talk people out of their hard earned money. There are a wealth of theories on how to make friends and influence people; but doing your impression of a snake oil salesmen? Dislike.

Having my cake.....and my waistlne too

So last week my sister and I went dress shopping for an upcoming event. First of all, I’d like to offer a bit of advice: never go shopping with someone who is a size 2, it will make you hate yourself. It doesn’t help that I have been a size four most of my adult life and suddenly I find myself fitting into a size six (or occasionally an eight). Now, I can hear you all already; OMG, is she really whining about being a size six (or eight)? Yes, and I’ll tell you why. Because I don’t like it. Plain and simple. I don’t like the idea of getting fat. Superficial? Perhaps but there is it is, another problem to solve. So, rather than whine I am jumping right in; I got on the scale last week and noted my weight (don’t you dare ask!), then I thought about my diet. I’m not a believer in traditional dieting, I think it makes the dieter hungry and grumpy and I’m grumpy enough as it is. I decided to start by trimming my lunches, since it’s my least favorite meal. Instead of eating leftovers or pizza for lunch, I have resolved to eat salads. Also, I am trying to eat yogurt and almonds for breakfast (I am not cutting out the coffee, priorities people!). And, of course I’ve started exercising. 65 sit ups a night to start, with the goal of making it 100. We have a treadmill and an elliptical which I also plan to use (eventually). My phone now has an app that allows me to track my calorie intake and exercise. I will re-weigh myself every month and note my progress. Stay tuned….size four here I come!

Dancing to the beat of my own violin.

I’m 2/3rds of the way through project runway, the part of the show where they critique the outfits. As I’m listening to the judges’ comments I’m drawing a comparison between the show and me fitting in (or not) with the rest of my family; rarely a day goes by around here that someone doesn’t comment on some part of me. Now, in my family’s defense I give them a lot of material. At any given moment I’m likely to waltz into the room wearing a tiara, I own more hair bows then the law should allow, and I’m obsesses with Disney princesses, like really obsessed. So, I get it, I’m weird. I delight in my weirdness. Trouble is, so does my family, just not in a way I’d like. “Who even owns a petticoat anymore?” my sister asks as I come in from work. Obviously I do as I’m clearly wearing one.

A 4G network......with perks!

A 4G network….with perks! You know what my life needs? Aside from a career, my own apartment, and perhaps a new pair of shoes (you know, for interviews)? A man. Scratch that. Men are a penny a dozen. What I need is a husband. Someone I enjoy coming home to every day. Someone I can raise a family with. Someone stable (read: good with money) and easy going, someone who’s got his priorities in order (read: doesn’t spend all his time getting drunk). I liken finding a life partner to finding a good phone; both must be easy to deal with, perform a variety of useful functions, and keep me entertained. Also, I feel like I am good at picking both, yet, after awhile, I always seem to end up looking for a new one. Now, as I mentioned before, I had a husband and as you might have guessed, I did not just describe him. My first model actually wasn’t all bad; Jealous, controlling, immature, but overall not a bad guy. We were together on and off since high school and we did a long distance thing for a year after I moved to San Francisco so it seemed like it made sense to get married. After we got married however, nothing did. For anyone who saw The Break up you know what I went through. “I don’t want you to do the dishes; I want you to want to do the dishes!” Exactly. I’m definitely ready for an upgrade. And this time around I know exactly what I want, or at the very least, what I don’t want. The problem is finding him. I think my problem is choosing based on aesthetics, I like purple phones and red hair and while these might well be good atritubutes they clearly don’t make for a lasting match so I decided I needed a new approach. Like so many before me I decided to try my hand at online dating. I figured a website would allow me to pick the precise traits I want in a man while ruling out the ones I didn’t, you know, like choosing a data plan. Turns out, it’s a bit more complicated than that. First I tried Zoosk. I created a profile and was matched with a few decent seeming people. Unfortunately, it seems that Zoosk only allows you to send one message for free and then insists you pony up for more. Really really irritating! So it was on to Okcupid! Where I met the guy who asked me to send him naked pics by way of greeting and the gem who stopped messaging me after, at his request, I sent him a recent pic. (The only difference between the pic I sent and the one on my profile: my hair is shorter). Next, I logged on to Plenty of Fish where I started chatting with a guy who seemed perfect, for about a week. That was how long it took for him to start asking if I would like to star in some of his fantasies, all of which were very, very x-rated. Oh and he asked me to marry him. Ugh! Why isn’t there a place where I can go, tell someone what I want, and have them produce it? You know, like a t-mobile store for guys.

The Next Chapter

Ten years ago I was a bright eyed 22 year old bursting with energy and lacking in experience (and practicality). On a whim I accepted a job with the American Red Cross, primarily because I didn’t know what else to do with myself, tossed the contents of my bedroom into several boxes, and headed west. Now, ten years, 20 (& change) lbs, and a failed marriage later I am right back where I started. The raw enthusiasm has been replaced by a sort of battle fatigue, what my sister refers to as my ‘little black rain cloud’ persona. I am NOT a little black rain cloud! It’s just that I believe in calling a spade a spade: I spent a decade wandering around in hippie dippie land (again, my sister’s term), married to a man who thought new cars were more important than rent, and basically accomplishing…….nothing. Now I’m back in Yonkers, spending my days eating frosted flakes while I look for work that doesn’t involve the phrase ‘do you want fries with that, and wishing I could turn back the clock. Speaking of which, my biological clock has been thundering in my ears of late, adding to the soundtrack of regret and self doubt. What did I say about not being a little black rain cloud? Never mind, I needed to focus on my list; step one, job! After pounding the pavement (electronically of course) I had lined up three interviews, two in queens and one in Staten Island. Who says persistence doesn’t pay off? Of course, these potential positions came with their own set of problems, mostly for my mother. Two of the positions were as a caregiver, which was the position I had before I left California. Personally, I love being a caregiver; I enjoy being on hand to enrich the lives of those in their golden years. My mother on the other hand felt I should be doing something more……more……well, just more. I suppose she isn’t wrong but…..I had to start somewhere right? Also, one of the care giving positions was in Staten Island. An hour or so away. If I drove. Which I don’t. On public transit it would take closer to two and a half which in my mother’s book (and my sister’s, and apparently everyone else’s) translated to skip it. “You’ll be so tired doing that commute everyday!, my mom explained, and when you do come home, you’ll defiantly be too tired to cook and clean!” Ah, now we come to the heart of the matter: since I got off the plane my mother has been telling me to relax, take it easy, take time to regroup. Catch my breath. Oh, and if I wanted to try out a recipe or two that would be alright. Naturally. Don’t get me wrong, making dinner every night for my family has been one of the few things that have made me feel useful since moving back home but that’s hardly a reason not to take a job in Staten Island. There are many, many reasons not to take a job in Staten Island, the list seems to grow every day, but playing Susie homemaker isn’t one of them. So Staten Island was out. As for the others, well, let’s just say they didn’t exactly pan out either, so where did that leave me? Lurking in my parent’s basement (I had progressed from the couch) watching Forensic Files. Sigh. The search continues.

Startng Over

What? The new 40? For that, I would have to know what 40 was like and the only experience I have with 40 is getting drunk at my mother’s 40’s birthday dinner and chanting to the older women “I’m 20 and you’re not, I’m 20 and you’re not……..” (Okay, Okay, perhaps not my smartest move). But seriously, what the hell are your 30’s supposed to be about? I know what I thought they were supposed to be about; Having a career you loved, or actively working towards one. Or at least having the slightest idea of what you want that career to be. By 30 you should be in a relationship, or know that you’re not the “relationship type.” If you want children you should have them (at least the first one right)? In short, you should have passed life 101 and be working on the more advanced courses. Unfortunately for me, I never was much of a student. George W. Bush said he was living proof that a “C” student could be president. Well, I am living proof that a “ C” student can also end up cramming their entire life into two suitcases and moving into their parent’s basement. Yup, that’s me; I gave up my cozy apartment in incredible, wonderfully wacky San Francisco to sleep on my sister’s old futon, be told to turn off the TV before bed, and sneak a drink with my friends. Like a friggin teenager! My first morning back in NY I sat on my parent’s couch (where I spent the night because my basement room wasn’t ready) and wondered “What the hell am I doing?” I sat there for a week and the most I figured out was that the house was in serious need of coffee (I’m the only coffee drinker in my family). By the following Monday I decided that, unless I indeed wanted to turn 40 in my parent’s living room (which would officially make me lamer than I was in high school) I had better get it together. So I did what I usually do: made a list. 1. Get a job!!! Easily the most important on the list; Getting a job was clearly the cornerstone of my “life makeover”. 2. Move out! (Again); this time, I’m thinking Philly. 3. Reinvention of self! (Mar-li 2.0?) There. I felt better already. Sort of. In any event, I attacked my list with gusto; On the job front I tweaked my resume and sent them out on the World Wide Web. Mostly, I applied for Home Health Care positions, which is what I did in California, but I also figured that now was as good a time as any to see if I could parlay my near obsession with the ID channel into an actual career, as I’ve always had a thing for forensic science. Instantly I pictured myself as a Crime Scene Tech; C.S.I windbreaker, pigtails tied with crime scene tape……yeah, I could defiantly live with that but how to start? Apparently this “fix my life” stuff wasn’t as easy as Dr.Phil made it look……