Psst...Hey...It's Me Again

I'm a lot of things but I'm not a money-oriented person. Don't get me wrong, I like me some Kate Spade bags but I don't own any. Not a one. I think I paid a hundred for a Liz Claiborne about ten years ago. It fit under an airline seat AND could hold a fat paperback while I traveled. In other words, it was the only bag that met my rather stingy requirements, but paying a hundred bucks for a stupid handbag almost gave me heart palpitations. I still have that purse. I just don't use it anymore. I stopped traveling at the end of the nineties and stopped wanting to carry something that resembled a doctor's bag. My current handbag? A hobo sack that fits neatly over the front of me so I can be hands-free all the time. It makes me look like a homeless circus freak but it only set me back $40 AND it was handmade by a local artisan. I've had it for seven years.

I watched with envy as my friends sported designer duds, sparkly doo-dads and wizard-like gadgetry. Why don't you hop on the bandwagon? My friends asked me as they proudly snapped blurred pics of us with their latest cell phones and let us exclaim in excitement as we paged through their expensive new iPod playlists displayed on the tiny, glowing LCD. They'd whip out their brand-new digital cameras and take multiple gigabytes' worth of candids so we could fawn over ourselves later on. Immediate gratification beautifully paired up with narcissism is what the digital camera is all about. Let's take pictures of ourselves and then look at them!

No, I'd wave them off. I can't.

Oh, but it's just a few...

Nope. Sorry. I can't, I'd say with regret tinting my voice blue.

Computers. Cell phones. Camcorders. Cameras. MP3 players. Macy's. Bloomingdale's. Parisienne. I refused them all just so I could kiss my debt goodbye. And in a few short months, I will be finished paying the last loan shark (and I say that with all due respect) by cashing out all of my IRA and 401k.

*GASP*

Yes. Yes, I am. I'm going to make one, giant payment to my credit card company hereby closing my last and final credit card account. With that last balloon payment, I will be free. For the first time in 17 years, I will be free from the boat anchor I've reluctantly attached to myself. Free from monthly installments. Free from interest rates sucking me dry. Free from those sleepless nights of worrying about where the money will come to pay the creditor when the utility company will shut off our heat if we don't pay them hundreds of dollars by the end of the week and it's already Wednesday...

Once that money is gone, it's gone, one banker lamented to me.

Yes. I get that, I answered. I watched The Lorax. I understand what "finite supply" means. I also know that while my funds are basically bleeding out, my debt remains the same. The debt isn't evaporating along with my savings or running a parallel downward spiral with our current home values. I've lived in squallor to pay my debts. Habitually, I've paid more than my minimum balance to get out from under their interest rates that always increase even when they promise they won't (it's only for a limited time and after that, it's anything goes), hidden fees (but you wanted the money and we gave it to you -- you couldn't possibly believe we'd not charge you for it) and tricky gimmicks (if your money isn't here by noon on your due date, we can hike up your interest rate so that Jimmy the Loan Shark's conditions are gonna seem reasonable). No promises have been anything but their bread-and-butter moneymakers. They're like casinos only worse. The house always wins. Even if you think you've won, you've lost.

So your mind's made up, the banker shook her head with real angst.

Yes, I nodded. My mind's made up. You of all people should understand. Your bank moves my charges around so that you can exact the most penalties from me. See here? I've taken a screen grab from the last two days. You've moved around my charges so that I've depleted my account more quickly...and therefore, bounced more checks. If you look at yesterday's pending checks compared with today's, you'll notice that they're in a different order. It's so you can charge me three times the penalties. $105 versus $35.

But that's what you agreed to when you signed onto an account with our bank.

Yes, but I also assumed, wrongly, that you'd take things in order. First come, first served. Sort of like the lines for the tellers.

We reserve the right to...

Yes. I understand the conditions completely. If I had more money, I wouldn't be in this predicament in the first place. If I managed my money better and stopped living paycheck to paycheck, I might actually come out ahead. Until that time, I'm at the mercy of banks and their policies specifically designed to screw the poor.

She smiled a thin skimming of her lips that never reached her eyes or gave her any warmth at all. There's just one last thing, she said.

Yes?

Most people in your particular situation -- not all, mind you -- will return to this very same condition in no time at all and then the money's gone. There aren't any further reserves.

I got up and returned her chilly smile. For the record, I told her with a steady stare, I started out just seven years ago with unsecured debt amounting to more than my yearly income. I've whittled that down significantly. Over the years, I've learned to do without very nicely. I don't think I'll be one of your repeat offenders. Thank you for your time.

Hyr me cuz I kin ryt gud.

I seriously thought that after the holidays were over, all I had to do was pepper the Detroit area with my resume and by the end of February, I'd be back in bid'ness. No biggie. Yeah, there's a recession going on...but it's me we're talking about. I'm fucking awesome.

Yeah, I wish I were kidding. I'm not.

Humility about writing or working has never been a strong suit of mine. I have a tremendous work ethic. I'll work my ass off, until my fingers bleed, until I can't see straight or think a clear thought. Even then, I'll drink a magnum full of man-coffee, find the bandaids, use one of those inflatable doughnuts and push through it. I've never been a pussy about work. Writing has always been a passion and while I don't think I'm the next Mary Shelley, Virginia Woolfe or Danielle Steele, I know I can write something...and with a little polish, it might even reach AND make sense to my audience. Put work and writing together and watch the fuck out. I'm a goddamned machine.

I sat back and waited for those interviews to come rolling in. They didn't.

I sent out a few more resumes and waited.

Nothing.

I pestered the places I wanted to work and let the rest of them slide back into the edges of my consciousness. I barely documented where I'd sent anything, who I sent anything to, when I sent it, how I heard about it...

That's no way to find a job.

The last time I had to actually go out and find a job was back in the early 90s. The computer company I worked for went under and I was going to be out of a job. I had a two-week notice that I used. I must've pumped out 100 resumes and made as many phone calls. I had charts detailing who I called, when I called them, what they said, what kind of job it was, how much it paid, when to re-contact them... My fellow coworkers, also going to be out of work with me, called my cubical "Job Central." And they were right. Within 10 days, I had a new job.

Little did I realize that I'd be hopping from job to job for the next several years, but after that big rush to find a new employer, everything else just sort of floated my way.

Since I was about 10, I never really had to work to find a job. I just showed up, said my shpiel, handed out my resume (sometimes) and then got hired. I rarely even waited longer than a week or so before I knew.

At 10, I went to the local horse farm that gave riding lessons and asked if I could muck stalls to pay for my lessons because my parents didn't want to shell out good money for me to take a couple of lessons and then get tired of it. The instructors laughed, but I had the job. My parents didn't think it was that funny, but I insisted. They didn't think I could pay for things I wanted? I'd show 'em.

And I did. I spent three days a week down at the stable. Twice a week, I mucked stalls and listened to the instructors give lessons to more advanced riders. Once a week, I took my own lesson. True to my parents' predictions, I lost interest in taking lessons, but I never lost my love of riding. I also proved to everyone that if I wanted something, I was going to work for it and I wasn't afraid of shoveling shit if that's what it took.

I used to have a lawn business where I'd try to mow all of the senior citizens' grass for free. I never asked them for any money, but of course, they'd call me aside every once in a while and give me an envelope. I made a killing those summers...and lost the last of the baby fat in the process.

What happened to this girl who used to hustle, the go-getter, the one who isn't afraid to knock on doors, make phone calls or shovel shit? I asked myself as I stared into the mirror. Have I let depression completely immobilize me? How arrogant do I feel now that it's almost April and I'm still sitting in my pajamas as 2 PM on a daily basis?

I still feel pretty arrogant.

I'm an idiot.

It's been a long time since I've been here. I hardly recognize the place now that I'm back...hardly could find it once I decided to return. It feels unfamiliar and yet not. I sit with the keyboard in front of me. My fingers know what to do without scarcely bothering to check with me before dancing amongst the letters.

It feels much as I always imagined a summer cottage might be in early June. That which was previously recognizable has faded from the topmost layer of your memories and it takes time to reacquaint. In no time at all, however, the squeaks in the floorboards, the feel of the wood beneath your feet, the grooves where you always used to put your fingers suddenly become comfortable...comforting... They slide back into the farthest recesses of your mind until the chillier winds of autumn revisit and you're loathe to part with them...only to go through like motions once again.

Perhaps it's healthy to find new places to put my hands, new floorboards on which to tread, new squeaks with which to familiarize myself. Perhaps...and yet I don't wish to discover any newness. Not yet. I long to stay in my comfort zone, in places where I know what to expect and from whom to expect it. The very notion of change excites me, but only when it's my decision, when I'm in control of the niggling details such as when, where, with whom and why. When change is thrust upon me, I feel as though the locks were changed while I was temporarily away and I'm on the outside, peering through a dirty window. As I'm left standing on the porch, waiting for someone, anyone to come by with a new key, I know in my deepest heart that it's all for naught. That door will remain locked. Waiting for it to reopen will be an exercise in futility, as if by holding onto the tree, the leaves won't change, the weather won't turn, winter winds won't blow their remains from barren branches.

Oh, but I feel abandoned by all that I loved...still love. I stare, alternately narrow-eyed in suspicion and wide-eyed in disbelief. Why now? Why not later? Why must it hurt so? What good will all of this pain do? How can I embrace the new when I can't possibly cut myself from the old? I'm not finished with it yet. I'm not ready to put it down, even though I well know its life cycle has long departed and all I'm left holding is but a dried carcass of what used to be. I'm not ready yet, but since when does readiness inspire motion? The decision is out of my hands, despite my own death-grip upon it. Some time ago, it left. When? I didn't know. How? I couldn't say. Although I held on tightly, it still blew away.

I wanted to go back. I wanted to turn the clock back to relive those moments again, to enjoy them for more than what they were or what they were designed to be. I looked back, gilding base moments until they shone, disguising them for what they were and elevating them to new heights until everything shone with an unrecognizable glow. I remembered it all better than it was, more precious than it deserved to be. The future looked bleak and empty. I couldn't bear to peer into its darkness while the past beckoned me so.

Winter has yet to release its grip upon me. While my eyes search for a blade of green in a sea of brown, my heart refuses to feel more than the ashes of summer and the horrid rejection of a newly locked door. I long for those familiar grooves upon which to rest my hands, those treads of the floorboards, the squeaks of warm wood expanding and contracting as the weather changes and the anticipation of what another tomorrow may bring.

Denial Isn't In Egypt

I’m used to denying my anger. No, I’m not mad, I’ll say. Sometimes, I’ll believe it. Sometimes, I’ll cut off any feelings just to remain numb and I’ll forget to attach them again. Yes, I’m very excited, I’ll say, hollowly. It’s not convincing enough. But I just can’t feel right now. I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry… I apologize a lot for things that aren’t my fault, things that I cannot control or participate in. Saying I’m sorry has become some kind of defense mechanism that allows me to reside behind a wall of stoicism.

It’s been my habit for years. When you leave me alone, that means I can hide. That means I won’t be singled out, held up as either a shining example or a piss-poor excuse for a human being. I’ll be safe. At least for now. And I’ve learned to be agreeable and cooperative. Which way would you like me to do this? How long would you like me to do this? When should I start doing something else? When is my deadline?

When you raise your voice or your hand to me, I’ll understand. You’re under a lot of stress. You’re tired. You have a lot to do in a short amount of time. You didn’t sleep well. You have a lot on your mind. You didn’t realize. You didn’t mean it. You’re just trying to get it done and get it done right. I make excuses for you. You don’t even need to explain. And afterwards, you’ll apologize and I’ll deny that I even noticed. All because I don’t want to be alone, I just want to be left alone.

I hate it. I hate needing you to keep me from being alone. I hate how ingrained my behavior has become so that I can’t hardly control it. You control it. I’ve become subservient to you. From one person to another to another and so it goes. It’s a pattern. I cannot seem to break it. Instead, I sabotage myself. Now that I’m a reformed cutter, smoker, drug-taker, alcohol abuser, overeater… what’s left to stop other than the behavior? Avoidance isn’t the cure because I have to go home. Where can I go when I’m not at home anywhere?

There will be a day when I’ll explode, when I can’t take it anymore. I’ll leave without an explanation, float away, free of all ties only to form more as equally binding as the last because it’s all I know. I’ll tell myself that this time will be different. This time, I’ll be with someone who will leave me alone without leaving. This time, I’ll be with someone who can love me without making me feel as though it’s conditional, as if any disagreements on my part will result in abandonment or worse, a progressive descent into disrespect and contempt. This time, I won’t have to pretend that I’m not pissed off or sad or angry or hurt. This time, I’ll be free. This time, I’ll feel.

Nerds Let Me Do That Thing With My Tongue

"It's a penny for your thoughts but you have to put your two cents in. Somebody's makin' a profit."
-----Steven Wright



Welcome. This is where I put in my two cents and you give me a penny for your thoughts. I'm Magic Marker, one of those scented ones that your teachers told you to stop smelling because the fumes can affect you. This is my blog where I spew my dimestore wisdom and sophomoric observations as a way to bridge the gap between writing for others and writing for myself. That should be a big heads-up because, in this arena, I'm going to write for me. If you decide you'd like to ride along, I'll be flattered. If you decide you'd like to comment, please do but it's not required.

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Mad Men moment:
Paul: What happened between us, Joan?
Joan: You have a big mouth.
Paul: I have a big mouth? I have a big mouth. I hate my big mouth.


Ever ask yourself how that nerd ended up with such a smokin’-hot chick? It’s a common question. I have a theory: hot guys are cocky douche bags who trash a woman’s reputation like spittin’ chew juice in a Styrofoam cup. To top it off, most of them aren't even nice. If I wanted to be treated like shit, I'd go back to living with my mom.

The guy who’s in really good shape probably used to be an athlete. Former athletes cannot seem to keep their mouths shut. Even when they have a good thing going, they have to fuck it up by blabbing to their ex-locker room buddies. In-between all of that towel-snapping camaraderie, they’ll even whip out pictures and direct viewers to YouTube to watch that thing she did with her tongue. Most women don’t want to be known as “that filthy whore/god I want her” chick unless her self-esteem is in the toilet and she’s begging to be passed around the team like an hors d’oeuvre.

The office cassanova probably has a $4,000 mountain bike and wears mandals when he’s not in his spandex bike-racing outfit and matching helmet. He’s a competitive motherfucker. Sexual harassment threats be damned, he’s going to talk about what he did and with whom he did it. In graphic detail. His audience lives vicariously through him because they’re not making it with that woman from the seventh floor, but they know someone who is. He is. Regularly. And according to his story, she’s letting him do all sorts of weird shit.

No woman from the office will put up with this shit for very long and so she’ll take great pleasure in her revenge by spreading horrible gossip: He had erectile dysfunction, cried after sex and then prematurely ejaculated like a 17-year-old virgin. I faked my orgasms because I was afraid he’d cry some more. I’ve never been with such an inept lover. If I wanted that kind of sex, I would’ve combed the high schools.

No man wants to be marked as a premature-ejaculating, crying, limp-dicked, inept, fake-orgasm-inducing blabbermouth. It basically poisons the pool and guys like the office cassanova will have to farm for their sexual partners outside of the firm.

Musicians love to brag about their “band aids” but also want a serious relationship, too. For some idiotic reason, women want to fuck guys in bands. And guys being guys can’t say no to freely offered pussy. Musicians cannot stop talking about how many women they fucked. And “band aids” cannot stop talking about how many musicians they fucked. Girlfriends are not amused. Go figure.

Do you want guys like that? No, what you really want is discretion. Who you want is a nerd.

Nerds will keep their sexual conquest’s identity a secret because they know how to use Photoshop and all of those nifty electronic devices that change the sound of a woman’s voice. And they’re smart. They understand that as soon as a woman is outed to their friends and she finds out, the gig is up and she’s going to kick his ass first and then stop having sex with him. Plus, it might be years before another such windfall occurs and he gets to have non-virtual sex again.

Nerds aren’t usually the guys who give you heart palpitations. They’re not the pool boys or firemen or cowboys. They’re not going to sport that rugged outdoor masculine look that can be equated with douche bag egoists. Instead, they’re the IT guys, programmers, economists and engineers. They’re nice, eager to learn and usually have enough money to pay their own way. Some of them exhibit enough chivalry to open doors or pick up the check once in a while, although many of them are not experienced with dating and therefore, not well socialized.

That’s okay. You don’t necessarily want to date the nerd. You just want to have sex with him.

Sex with nerds isn’t stellar right away, but they’re willing to accelerate the learning curve with extra practices if you are. It’s sort of like a twisted version of The Graduate. That lets you be Mrs. Robinson. You can seduce them and try all of that freaky shit you’ve been fantasizing about. They’ll LOVE it, even if you have to ease them into it. They’ll thank you for it later.


This was a service announcement endorsing the use of nerds for your next sexual conquest. I'm a nerd and I approve this message.