The United States of Sway

The State of the Art

I'm working on an article about my recent trip to Florence. It's due Aug. 19 and will be for a business and travel publication. As with any time I have massive amounts of information to cram into a single travel article, I sometimes doubt that I'll be able to do the locale justice. I think I did manage to take some good photos, though, and hopefully, after I decide which ones I'm going to submit for printing, I'll know which ones I can post here, too.

As far as my day-to-day work goes, I'm still finding it frustrating that companies can misplace my invoices, or they might get buried in my editor's inbox, etc. And because it takes most magazines at least 30 days to pay freelancers, I can't know that the invoice has been misplaced or skipped until 30 days passes. Then by the time I let the finance department know and they rectify the mistake and cut me the check, two months may have passed. The result is an earnings spreadsheet with lots of red boxes representing thousands of outstanding dollars. Completely annoying.

On another writing front, I've legitimately given myself an ultimatum. (Can you say something is an ultimatum even if there aren't really any negative consequences?) I've told myself I have to finish my novel by my 30th birthday. I turned 27 in May, so I feel like three years should be a reasonable amount of time to accomplish this. I've had an idea brewing since 2006. I was working at a law firm in downtown Phoenix and some scenes and characters came to me. I started scribbling down some notes, and ever since then, these characters have not left my mind. And for the past half decade, I've lived with them in my head, and their story has developed more and more, and I know that it's time for me to just get it out and down on paper. The problem is, I often have a hard time justifying to myself time spent on "investment work" rather than work that's going to immediately pay the bills. Which is a lame excuse. Last year I did National Novel Writing Month and got a good start on it -- so I know what I'm capable of if I just make the stinking time.

From now on, Fridays are for fiction. Monday through Thursday I'm going to work hard to fulfill my other work obligations, and then no excuses, Fridays I'm going to sit my butt down and try to write as much as I can. Even if none of it's good. Even if none of it will be ultimately usable. I just have to get it all out and down on paper. Wish me luck with that.

The State of the Household

My boyfriend left yesterday morning for a week-long vacation with his family, so it's going to be very quiet around here. Usually I get pretty lonely whenever he's gone this long, but I honestly have so much to do and think about this week, that the time will probably just zip by. For starters, I need to crank out that travel article mentioned above, plus working ahead on other upcoming to-do's wouldn't hurt at all. And if I can get all of that to a good place by next Friday, then I won't even have to feel bad about taking Friday and Saturday to work on my fiction project.

Not to mention, I need to clean the house. With me being gone on my own week-long vacation just a few weeks ago, plus with both of us having been so busy with work and other projects these last couple of weeks, the condo is in major need of being put back together. And not to say my boyfriend is messy, but ... let's just say it will be easier for me to reclaim our living space with him gone for a week.

Plus, there are books I want to read, movies I want to watch, bubble baths I want to take, and non-boyfriend-friendly meals I want to cook. I don't know how much, if any, of these things will really happen in the next seven days, but hey, a girl can dream, right? 

The State of the Extracurricular Activities

Also, this week is my first working week as an instructor at that fitness studio I mentioned in a previous post. I have been training my fanny off the past 12 weeks, and then this past week just about did me in. I've been at the studio every single day for several hours at a time, and yesterday I was there from 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. going over everything all over again. "What?" you ask. "What kind of fitness instructing requires that much intense studying?" This is one of those barre workouts -- a mix of yoga, pilates and ballet barre work. It got me into the best shape of my life and became so fun and addicting that I knew I wanted to become an instructor. Little did I know how much each instructor actually puts into teaching one of these 60-minute classes, though! As in instructor, you're leading a class through a routine, so you're talking the entire hour, giving them cues for each exercise, plus walking around and giving them individualized and positive corrective feedback. The entire time. You have to have the flow of all the exercises memorized, plus you have to stay on the beat and change the music where appropriate. If you see that most of the people in your class are having a hard time with the exercise you've set them up in, then you need to change it on the fly to something a little easier yet still challenging ... The whole thing is a blend of certain material that is etched in stone, and other material that the instructors have to improvise as they go. Plus, you have to make sure that you don't go over 60 minutes, or under 60 minutes.

I can't remember the last time I had to speak in front of people for a full hour. Maybe never. In a way, you're kind of putting on a 60-minute performance for your class that they can follow along with. It's been a little overwhelming to learn everything, but regardless, today is my first full-length class. I have to teach a full 60 minutes with real clients in the class. Another instructor will be present in case I pass out or something, but otherwise, it will be all me. And then tomorrow, Aug. 1, I'll teach my first real class, and no other instructor will be there to bail me out if, say, I forget an entire section.

It is a lot to remember, and at times, a lot of pressure. But sometimes, when the other instructors who are going through the training program start to panic, I just say, "Hey, relax. Remember, at the end of the day, you're just helping people exercise." Not that big of a deal.

Just Like Vertical Horizon, I'm Still Here

Hello, and thank you for not leaving during the intermission.

So, I know I've been MIA for about ... oh, three months ... but I promise my hiatus has come to an end.

Here's what you missed during the break ...

-I turned 27 earlier this month.

-I wrote and copy edited. A lot.

-I've spent an infuriating amount of time tracking down payments from people who have "forgotten" to pay me or have "lost" my invoices.

-I took a weeklong trip to Hong Kong in March.

-I finally had a freelance month in which my gross earnings matched my former full-time monthly salary at the magazine (where I worked survived between 2008 and 2010). I'm singing the "Hallelujah" chorus right now as I type this, because that is seriously a HUGE achievement for me.

-I took a beginner's ballet class at my local community college this past spring semester.

-I began training to become a fitness instructor. (Not as a personal trainer; I'm being trained in a specific method, it's a kind of ballet barre/Pilates/yoga technique. If all goes well, I'll be teaching classes by the end of summer.)

-I joined the Arizona Chapter of Fashion Group International.

-I kicked my professional website/portfolio into high gear -- because man, that corner of the web needed organizing in a big, big way.

-And did I already mention I did a lot of writing and copy editing?

Next week it will have been one year ago exactly that I walked through the doors of the magazine for the last time (OK, so I've been back a few times to visit former co-workers since then, but those don't count) and officially began my freelance career. So what have I thought of the ride so far?

It's sucked.

Just kidding. It's actually been so rewarding that even though opportunities to apply for other full-time, in-house writing and editing positions have come along (and some of them have even been miiighty tempting) in the past 12 months, I've ultimately shrugged them all off. The truth is, once you become your own boss and see what that kind of life can be like, the idea of going back to a 9-to-5-er seems ridiculous.

Not to say this has been a picnic. And I think my boyfriend has probably forgotten what I look like without my laptop.

But, the need to occasionally detach from work is what drove me to get out of the house and take my ballet class a few times a week, plus go to classes at the fitness studio. Actually, I got so hooked on the fitness classes that the owner invited me to become an instructor. So now once a week I attend a workshop for about an hour and a half, in addition to taking three classes per week so that I don't lose my form. I'm also required to observe the instructors in a minimum of 10 classes, then I help with correcting clients for a minimum of eight classes, and then voila! I'll be telling people to get down and give me 20. Just kidding. We don't do that at the studio. We ask much more politely. And we do yoga pushups. Not military pushups. Actually, that's a lie. We do both. But still, we do ask much more politely.

OK, that's all for now. More tales from a writing and copy editing fitness instructor and knitter later.

Promise!

Cuddle With Me

This week has been sickly. Wait, no, I meant me. I've been sickly. Not actually sick, mind you, just feeling sick. Sick of being awake.

It started with Monday. I spent probably 10 hours that day working on a feature article for a client who wanted to submit something to the ever glamorous publication Soft Drinks International. I spent most of the weekend and Monday thinking and reading way more about plastic than I've ever wanted to, let's just say that. I filed the article with my client at 1:30 a.m. and went to bed.

Now, I don't know how old you are, whoever you are, but I am 26, and according to my genetic aging process, have long passed the age during which I can still pull an all-nighter -- even a quarter-of-a-nighter -- and still manage to fully function. No, I'm already an old geezer when it comes to staying up past my bedtime (9:30 p.m.) and I was thus 100% USELESS the next day. Although, in my defense, it's not like I got to sleep in or anything. I still woke up at 5:30 a.m. to be sure I was "in the office" at the usual time (7 a.m. Phoenix time) for my East Coast clients, plus I knew I was going to need to make myself available in the event the plastics article needed revisions.

Worked until roughly noon, until my workload came to a reasonable stopping point, then I set an alarm on my phone and shut my eyes on the couch for just a few minutes ...

One hour later, I woke up and got right back to work, but I swear, being that tired and trying to form cohesive sentences and type with accuracy is pretty darn near impossible. You end up typing things like "... but the real issue with PLA plastics isn't their durability, it's that their kittens are so cuddle with me ..." I know you know this to be true.

The next thing I knew, my boyfriend was arriving home from work already. I thought, "Good. I can stop working. We'll eat dinner. We'll watch a sitcom. We'll go to bed. And I'll get my usual eight hours of sleep and feel a whole lot better in the morning.

No.

"Well," my boyfriend said, "I have to go in to work early tomorrow morning, so we'd better just eat and then go to bed."
"What? How? How early?" I managed to stammer.
"I have to be there at 5," he said. "I'll set our alarm for 3:30."
Nooooooooooooo.

By the time all was said and done, what with defrosting the chicken and boiling the pasta and grilling said chicken to perfection and then eating said chicken with creamy alfredo sauce (Seriously, it was either that or just yogurt and beer. Note to self: buy frozen pizzas and/or TV dinners during next grocery trip), we didn't make it to bed any earlier than usual. In fact, we actually made it to bed later, so I only ended getting about six or six and a half hours of sleep. Funny how after you've had the same schedule for years those one or two hours can make such a huge difference right?

As a result, on Wednesday I was "in the office" by 5 a.m. I worked until 12:15 p.m., at which point I had to drive to Downtown Scottsdale, more specifically, to the fire department, to meet my editor and a photographer there for a story I've been assigned. Long story short, even though we had an appointment, there was a gross mis-communication prior to our arrival, and the trip turned out to be a bust. So I drove home, worked, then my boyfriend came home from work early since he'd started early, he played some Modern Warfare and then went to water polo practice. (Yes, a couple months ago it was rowing, now it's water polo -- I know, I can't keep up either.) I kept working.

Boyfriend came home at 10:00 from practice, there was some semblance of a dinner, then there was sleep. But not much, because going to bed at 11:00 and getting up at 5:30 means you're going to spend at least the first 30 minutes just thinking about the fact that you're going to bed at 11 and getting up at 5:30. It's the sick law of dreading what's coming.

So today -- exhausted. Today -- still behind on work for the week. Today -- had to interview a rambler over the phone. Today -- forgot to eat lunch. Today -- exhausted.

Today ... Tonight ... have to somehow clean up the house, because the in-laws arrive tomorrow morning.

Yes, that's right, in a fantastic twist of fate known as The Worst Timing Ever, they will be arriving from Oklahoma in the morning and I will somehow have to make sure they have decent living quarters and a refrigerator stocked with something more than just yogurt and beer.

Don't worry, I've pulled it off before.

And then after they leave on Sunday, so help me, I am going to sleep. For days.

Let Me Tell You About My Wednesday Night/Morning

Let me just preface this by saying that my boyfriend and I do not live in filth. We have a nice home and are both very tidy, albeit somewhat disorganized in busier weeks. But then again, who isn't? At any rate ...

You know how sometimes when you're asleep, there are things that can be going on around you that your mind subconsciously incorporates into your dreams? (If you're a light sleeper, that is.) For example, maybe you awake to discover that your high school gym teacher's shouting was not, in fact, morphing into a screeching bird voice, but rather, your alarm clock was going off.

I experienced a variation on that phenomenon Wednesday night/early morning. It all began when I felt something skittle across my hand under the covers. "That's weird," my dream self thought. "But totally not anything worth panicking over."

And then the something skurried up the back of my tank top (I was lying on my side), bringing me a little closer to being awake. Now my dream self was fading as the real me swished at my back with one hand.

And then the something scuttled across my stomach, which is precisely the moment my dream self drop-kicked me into being awake. I shot straight up in the air and somehow ended in a crouch position on top of my pillow in about half a second. My boyfriend, roused from a dead sleep, immediately sat straight up and just kept saying "Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!" in an attempt to get me to stop flailing my arms and beating the sheets in front of me like a woman possessed.

Now, I don't wear my contacts when I sleep, and that night I had forgotten to place my glasses on my nightstand, so I couldn't see a darn thing. But I would swear in a court of law that upon first rising up into my "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon" attack mode pose, I am very certain I saw something black about the side of a quarter at the edge of the fitted sheet right before one of my flailing arms swept that little #$%^&*@#*$&# right off the bed.

Of course, my boyfriend thought I was crazy. Because, as well all know, that is one of the areas that almost every boyfriend is capable of excelling in, the ability to believe his girlfriend is in a constant state of crazy.

"Ifeltsomethingscurryovermyhandandthenupthebackofmyshirtandthenovermystomach!" I warbled in terror.

"I know, I know," he said, patting my shoulder a little, trying to console me. He was already starting to lie back down at that point.

"No seriously! I don't have my glasses on, but I saw it! When I flipped the covers up, there was something black right there."

He sat back up in a hurry. "Really? Right where?" Oh sure, then he was interested.

But ultimately, he couldn't find anything, peering with his 20/20 vision over the comforter and the side of the bed, and so he told me to go back to bed.

Go back to bed? Are you kidding me? Having some sort of creepy-crawly scurry over her in her sleep is one of the top 10 scenarios on every woman's "Most Traumatizing Things That Could Ever Happen To Me In My Own Home" list. There is no way I was going to be able to go back to sleep. Or even get back under those sheets.

So as my boyfriend started to softly snore again, there I lie, cold and traumatized, wondering how many more hours until our alarm clocks would be going off and I could stop thinking about how I wasn't sleeping and why I wasn't sleeping.

About 40 minutes later, the alarm clock sounded and I, definitely not asleep, jumped up, flipped on the light and proceeded to check the floor before setting my feet down. After a few more minutes of surveying the room ...

"I found it," I said.

"Found what?" my boyfriend mumbled.

"What was scurrying around last night."

"You did? Where? What is it?"

"It's a cockroach," I said, disgusted, and pointed toward the carpet next to his nightstand.

Suffice to say there was an insect death that occurred in our home around 5:30 a.m. Arizona Mountain Time, and that the corpse was honored in a manner fitting with how the specimen chose to live its life: We flushed it.

Sheets have been washed, traps have been set, and my boyfriend has already had to endure my recount of the events involved in my near-death experience at least a dozen times.

But the really, truly tragic thing is that as the little body was swirling down into the underworld where all bad bugs (and even the good ones, too, I imagine) go, I found myself thinking: "There can't be cockroaches here! This is Scottsdale!"

I think this place is finally affecting me.

How To Be Alone

Below is a great little video called "How To Be Alone" by filmmaker, Andrea Dorfman, and poet, singer and songwriter Tanya Davis.

Davis wrote the poem and performed in the video, which Dorfman directed, shot, animated by hand and edited. The video was shot in Halifax, Nova Scotia, and was produced by Bravo!FACT.

I think both men and women can appreciate the film's message, but the way it's delivered will likely resonate a little deeper with women. You'll see what I mean. Enjoy.

Perspective

 Two and a half years ago, I didn't have a clue about the magazine industry or publishing or what it took to write professionally.

Heck, even four and a half years ago, after having earned my bachelor's in professional writing, I didn't even have a grasp on what was involved.

And yet, here I am today, on the other side of a two-year-plus stint at a national magazine, now writing from home full-time. I'm running my own professional website, I have a for-business-only e-mail address, I have business cards, I've made an appointment with a photographer for a portrait to put on my cards and other various locations on the internet, and best of all, I have jobs and contacts.

The whole ordeal seems a bit insane to me to some degree, I'll admit. When I chose my major in college, I got the expected raised eyebrows from many (many) people, including my parents (especially my parents). "You want to major in professional writing? What does that mean?"

And I would explain in a usually -- not always, but usually -- patient manner that it meant I would most likely go on to work at a PR company, writing press releases, or I would be writing ad copy for a corporation or a marketing firm. And usually -- not always, but usually -- that would kind of put an end to people's questions.

To be honest, though, I'm not sure that I believed what I was saying each time I gave that explanation. It's not that I believed I'd be writing poetry chapbooks or penning novels, it's just that I really wasn't sure what a professional writing degree meant, either. All I knew was that writing for other people was something I was good at and something I enjoyed doing, and fortunately, I was able to convince my family and friends of the same.

Of course, now it's easy for me to see a third fold to that logic, which is the fact that my ability to write is, maybe luckily or unluckily, my only marketable skill. Really. And I'm not disappointed in that.

It makes a lot of sense now that I'm older. I am a kind of copier, in a sense; I can only work with things that have already been created or provided to me, but I can't just create stuff in the true sense of the word. And when I was a kid, this used to frustrate me to no end. But now that I'm an adult, I can finally see the pattern, and it's allowed me to play to my strengths, and also explained a lot about who I am and what I'm capable of.

See, there was a reason that I could only make beautiful copies from photos when I was in art class in high school. And there was a reason I couldn't just make up choreography on my own in tap class. And there was a reason I sucked at sports, too -- if a scenario didn't exactly fit one of our pre-game drills, I couldn't recognize what my reaction should be. And I was never really any good at geometry or calculus or science, either, because those subjects, too, take a special kind of creativity that I just don't have. (I did rock algebra pretty hard, though. I can find X with the best of them. Boo-yah.) And to this day, after knitting for years, I can't make up or adjust knitting patterns on the fly; if something doesn't have absolutely every single stitch written out, I can just forget it.

So maybe I can't do any of those other things very well, but what I can do is take a whoooooole lot of information and words, process it, and then spit it back out, so to speak -- re-organize it in a way that's interesting and that people can understand.

Even though everything about the way my brain is wired funneled me down the path of writing and editing, I never knew that it could lead to something as cool as this -- a career in which I get to work from home but still go to events, get to make my own schedule and decide when I take time off, and yet still earn a living while meeting new people and learning new things every day.

I've come a long way, baby. I'm proud of myself. I was a frustrated little kid (and later, a frustrated adult), who didn't understand why I couldn't just be good at all the things I wanted to be good at. But now I have a much broader view.
My point is ...

Maybe there's something you wish you were better at or had a knack for that you just always struggle with, and maybe it's time to recognize that that's OK. Maybe it's time to discover what the positive is to your negative, so to speak.

We're all bad at things, and we're all good at things. And sometimes looking at one can help us determine the other.

And I think that's pretty cool.

Our Condo Is Spotless

Last week was not a super one, although it ended happily.

It started with having to do my first weekly filing for unemployment insurance, which was something of a confusing and demoralizing process. For that I also needed my final paystub from the magazine, which employees are supposed to be able to retrieve online, however, my login failed. (Which is weird, considering the company has still not removed my access to my company e-mail or the magazine's web-based software ...) So thus ensued a series of annoying phone calls until my paystub was eventually retrieved and a copy mailed to Arizona's "Department of Economic Security." Yippee.

Tuesday I heard back regarding a job interview I'd had just before Memorial Day Weekend. No go. And it was a really, really, really perfect position for me, too. I was extremely disappointed.

Wednesday I was supposed to meet up with a friend who is a horse trainer and hunter/jumper instructor for a free riding lesson, which I now finally have the time to do since I am no longer working full-time. I've waited long time to be able to take her up on her offer, and then on Wednesday she had to cancel at the last minute. I mean, I can't be too upset, because after all, she is doing a really nice thing here and offering to give me a completely free lesson, but she's also leaving for California this week with one of her pupils for the rest of the summer to go on a horse showing tour of Cali or some such biz.

Thursday my debit card number was stolen, or maybe it had been stolen long before that and the thief only attempted to use it on Thursday, who knows. Either way, I was not happy about it. The only good thing about the whole situation was that my card was declined at a coffee shop that happened to be right next door to one of my bank's branches, so I was just like, "Excuse me," and then walked a few yards to ask the teller, "Yo, what the *&$# is going on with my account." This raised an interesting situation, in which I discovered that apparently it takes three representatives to help a customer solve a fraud issue at that particular location. Good times.

Friday morning, before my boyfriend headed off to work, we were sitting at the dining room table, having breakfast, and I said, "You know, we really need to get together with our landlords to renew our lease. I think it expires this week."

Time out. First, some background information you may find helpful. Important things to know:

1. Our landlords are good friends of ours, and were even long before we became their tenants. They're kind of like the super cool aunt and uncle you may already have or just wish you had. This is why they trust us enough to let our lease wind down to the week of without a renewal -- they know we're good for it. This is also why they never felt the need to come by the condo a single time during the whole past year we've been living in it. They trust us and are cool like that. But still, I think all four of us were just getting lazy about the renewal, and I knew we shouldn't put it off any longer, which is why I brought it up.

2. They live in a 7,000-square-foot palace up in the mountains outside of Scottsdale. They have impeccable taste and are, as you might expect, somewhat picky about almost everything. Not in a huge pain in the neck kind of way, but picky.

3. A week and a half ago, I finally made a list for my boyfriend of six or seven things that needed to be done around our condo that I knew either he would want to do himself, or that he should do due to my lack of capability in that particular area. Examples would include replacing our air filter, emptying our vacuum (every time I do it, I make a huge mess and sneeze for days), clean the outdoor grill (which is on loan from our landlords), reduce the piles and piles of random stuff on his desk in the office ... Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

4. As of Friday, my boyfriend had done approximately zero of these things.

Time in. So we were sitting at the breakfast table, and I brought up the issue of the lease. "Yeah," he said, "Let's e-mail or call them today and see if we can swing by this evening to do it." Well, of course that's code for me e-mailing or calling, so as soon as he left for work I sent the wife a message with our proposal. We know it's always more convenient for us to come to them, so we always meet at their home. She wrote back and said that sounded great, we could come over at 6. Perfect. I sat down at my desk, and I began to answer e-mails and settle in for another day of filling out job apps and so on. But then another message from her pops up in my inbox. "Actually," she writes, "we will come to you guys. We can see the condo and sign the lease and then all go to dinner afterward. See you at 6."

Now, believe me when I tell you that from 8 a.m. to 1 p.m., I did absolutely nothing but clean. I mean, I keep it pretty clean here all the time, especially lately, because I've been, ahem, at home more often. But let's be honest, there's a difference between cleaning for yourself and cleaning for your picky landlords who are coming over with your lease renewal contract. Right?

So guess who got to take care of the many items on my boyfriend's to-do list? That's right. Me. And the rest of everything else. I started in the kitchen, worked my way into the entry hall, then on to the living room, dining room, hallway, guest room, guest bath, master bath ... And about the time I made it to the master bedroom, about 1:00, my boyfriend came home from work. I told him he owed me big time. He told me I'd done a great job and then he went to go get us a pizza. (I swear they think differently from us, but it's the thought that counts, I suppose.)

To his credit, he did return. Bearing food, no less. And after we had recharged on a Mexican Pizza from Z's, we tag-teamed the rest of the place until it sparkled and shined. We finished at approximately 5:45, I showered in record time, and they were here at 6:15. Whew.

They said the place looked nice. We renewed the lease. And then we went out for a lovely dinner at Rhythm and Wine, where, I can happily attest, I was not asked to clean one single thing.

To Be Filed Under: Filing

On Saturday, I submitted my application to receive unemployment benefits. It felt weird, like I should be ashamed by it, but then again, there's a large percentage of the population that's in the same boat right now. And also, as my boyfriend pointed out, we do pay unemployment insurance each time we earn wages, so if I paid for it, I might as well use it. Right? Still weird though.

In similar news, I received an e-mail today from a recent interviewer letting me know that the company had found someone else they liked better for their copywriter position. Nertz. As you can probably tell, it has not felt like a super-productive day.

Tomorrow morning, out of retaliation against the universe, I will be going for a horse riding lesson and then quite possibly to a friend's birthday party in the evening. Also, I fully intend to take part in the Irish Cultural Center of Arizona's "Bloomin' Beerfest" on Saturday. Do you hear me, universe?? That ought to shake you up a bit.

Notes from Today

1. Clinical-strength deodorant is far superior to the regular kind. The regular kind is dead to me from now on.

2. Receiving two movies at a time from Netflix makes my boyfriend far happier than receiving just one. Far, far happier.

3. Sometimes, a pie crust just isn't available on a day I want to make quiche. But on those days, I should just make it anyway, because you know what? It's going to be OK. Sometimes a girl's gotta go crustless.

4. My Starbucks travel mug can keep my tea hot (and then satisfyingly warm) for up to 8 hours. Eight! I know this because I'm drinking a mug of tea I made at 5 p.m. today. It's almost 1 a.m. now and I'm still trying to finish it.

5. I drink tea very slowly.

6. Green tea doesn't really taste very good after 8 hours.

7. When I have to stay up late to work, I must always be drinking a warm beverage. (This is true even in the summer. Even in the summer in Arizona.) It helps me think.

8. When I have to stay up late to work, past a certain point, I am too lazy to make a fresh warm beverage.

9. Sometimes, to get something done, you have to just stay up all night and, like, you know, do it.

10. To willingly submit to sleep-deprivation may very well be one of the most genuine signs of sincerity a human being can offer the world.

An Open Letter to Life

Dear Life,

Hey. So. It's been a while. Sorry I haven't had more time for re-examination. Guess I'll have to make it up to you.

Anyway, I guess the reason I'm writing is because I have a few things I'd like to discuss. Such as ... for example ... why July went so fast.

I mean, why did it go so fast? Right? Did you feel it, too? And for that matter, why is this whole year going so fast? It was January, like, yesterday. Are you sure you aren't messin' with the clock or something? Not even a little? It's OK, you can be honest ...

And another thing. A bigger thing. I would like to know why, exactly, you look like this. Please explain. Why am I coming home to an empty house, skipping dinner, pouring myself a glass of wine, watching episodes of My So-Called Life on DVD, keeping the thermostat on 82 to save money, changing my mind about dinner and having a sad, cold piece of pizza, turning to my blog (my blog! I swore I would never become one of those people ... too late ...), keeping an eye out for the hummingbird at the feeder outside the dining room window and washing new towels over and over again to get rid of the fuzzies in order to keep myself occupied on a weeknight? Hmm? ...

WHILE

... My boyfriend has been half a world away, in Venice, Italy, with his family, since last Friday, having a world-class life experience for one week, without me ... although he and I have known each other since we were 11, been dating for almost three years and have never -- I repeat, never -- been on our own vacation together ...

?????????




Whatever, no big deal. You must be mad at me for something I don't remember, and OK, I get that. It's fine. I'm sure, somewhere back there, I probably pushed the envelope a little too far and crossed you. I'll give you the benefit of the doubt. I will now take this time to say I'm sorry. So ... I'm sorry.

But still, I do think that maybe it was a bit much for you to have orchestrated for it to be Print Week at my job in the week leading up to my boyfriend's departure. You know I always have to work late every night of Print, so that was kind of harsh. And the fact that I had to drop him off at the airport at 4:30 in the morning? Seriously, what was that?! Adding insult to injury, that's what.

Sigh. Life, I love you, but honestly, you're really, really lucky that things like friends, sisters, sushi, chocolate, wine, Apple (yes, the company), fluffy pillows, the GAP and The Pioneer Woman exist. Otherwise, I'm fairly certain I would be hating you right now.

So that's it. I just wanted to say, "What gives?" and wish you -- and me -- a good rest of the week.

Oh, and one teeny, tiny request. I would like to take a vacation in September. Do you think that could be arranged? Let me know.

All the best,
Your friend Sway

Time to Move the Wagons Again

Dear dear internet world, I have good news: I have not been ignoring you of free will. Promise.

Rather, my boyfriend and I just moved into are still unpacking in have only recently found things like our internet cables in our new place. I feel like I've been basically spinning in circles for the past several days -- packing, unpacking, packing, unpacking. And we're still neither officially out of the old place nor officially into the new place, but we will be soon. Very soon. Like, next Tuesday soon.

The better news is that we've moved to something akin to a mini desert wildlife preserve, meaning every morning when I step outside to drink my coffee on the back porch, I see one of these:


And usually a lot of these:


And occasionally, one of these:


We've also been told there's a resident bobcat that likes to scare the you know what out of local house cats, but I haven't spied him yet.

I love our new home. It has a lot of space for all my favorite pastimes: cooking, reading, knitting and of course, writing. And it's pretty neat to be so close to a metropolitan city and yet still on the outside edge, looking in on all the chaos.

Speaking of cooking, I already told you about how I nearly burned my face off making dinner in the new place last Saturday, right? I haven't?? Oh right, missing internet cables...

Well in that case, I'll be sure to cover all of that in my next post. It involves some bacon, a tall glass of milk, my own stupidity, a spicy little treat and a very nice young man who was willing to take me to the emergency room. To be continued.

Moving Windmills

Someone needs to make this into a movie, because it's incredible:

"In late 2006, a Malawian newspaper first wrote about a remarkable young man from a remote rural village north of the capital city. This is his story."

Like Swimming Against the Current

Maybe I should just rename this site to "The Life and Times of a Struggling Writer/Editor," since work seems to be mainly what's on my mind these days.

This month, I'm writing two or three articles for my primary job, plus several freelance articles for miscellaneous websites. I'm guessing things are going to get complicated about the middle to the end of the month, so this week I'll be pushing myself to get as much out of the way as I can.

I remember when my job used to be a means to an end -- it was something I did every day in order to be able to enjoy the rest of my life. But now I feel like I spend so much energy overextending myself, trying to make myself invaluable to the company, and worrying about whether or not my job will even be there the next day, that I don't really have the time or energy I used to have to relax and enjoy my hobbies. (When was the last time I even picked up my knitting needles?) It's stressful and frustrating.

But, I do still at least have a job, and I'm certainly very grateful for that. Just have to keep my head above the waves for now, until I make it into shallower waters.

I'm Still Waiting for the VW Beetle to Appear

It is bizarre to me how every day can be a little different and yet still feel exactly the same as the one before. The past several weeks I've felt like I'm wading through a deep pool of coffee mugs, bad articles, grocery lists and dinners in front of the TV. And it's not like any of those are bad, it's just that I feel like somehow everything has gradually become monotonous and I don't know what to do to break it. I'm picturing a snow globe that needs to be shaken up. Or this...



... Except without the peppy music. Or the VW Beetle appearance. Also, I am not a dude. Nor do I work in a skyrise in... is that supposed to be Manhattan? Anyway, you get the point.

But, nothing is wrong. Nothing is bad. Yet. And though I try my best to avoid thinking negatively, the pragmatist in me can't help but be concerned over things involving stodgy phrases like "financial stability" and "the security of my job." These things have been distracting me to the point where I feel like in any given minute I'm only paying half as much attention to what's going on as I normally would be. It's like a continuous feeling that I've been up for two days straight and can't quite bring my mind back into focus.

I think the fact that I was sick for a week or so, combined with the dread that any day now I'll walk into work and be terminated, probably has a lot to do with my current state of mind. Ever since the company made its financial predicament known at the beginning of the year, many of us have been asking for updates, but the powers that be have been very tight-lipped on the whole matter, and so now it's like we're all just holding our breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

And so now 10% of the time I'm thinking about such matters as... Our apartment complex just upped our rent in an emergency financial move. I'm having a hard time finding a doctor/optometrist/dentist who accepts my poor health insurance. Our lease on our apartment ends in June and we don't know yet whether we'll be able to go or will have to stay -- or even be able to stay. (We would really, really like to move. For a number of reasons.) I can't get a second job because this one takes up so much time already. And if I lose this job, where will I go? Is there even a healthy future for me in this industry or should I change careers? Does this industry even have a healthy future?

And that's about the time my head explodes. Which is why, to avoid such explosions, the other 90% of the time I distract myself by any means necessary, as long as -- like I said in my previous post -- it doesn't involve any real, actual work. Like right now, for example, as I type this on my lunch break, drinking a nonfat mocha and trying to decide how many times during the rest of the day I can sneak away to the patio to read a few pages of my novel before someone takes notice.

OK, that's it, I'm done now, I promise. And tomorrow I'll be more chipper.

The Good Recession

The whole situation with the economy being terrible, the magazine industry in more than a slump, the wage reduction at my work, and the possibility of losing my full-time job altogether has made me a tad obsessed lately with the idea of paring down my life and belongings.

Over the course of the past couple weeks I've gone through my entire closet and given away anything and everything that I don't wear anymore or that just doesn't fit. I also went through drawers in the bathroom and took inventory of my bath and body products: which ones I could throw out, which ones I could use up, which ones I didn't even know I had.

And the obsession hasn't been limited to aesthetics. I've gone through the kitchen, my desk area, the hall closet ... and I've been getting rid of things left and right. Or I've noticed things we've run out of around the house, and I think, "Do we really need more? Does it really need to be replaced?"

During this period of time in which every other entity in the country seems to be letting go of whatever they deem superfluous, it somehow makes me feel better to do the same. I feel lighter, like I have less to keep track of, less to contend with as I go about my daily routine.

I think recessions are good in the way that they remind us that we can do without certain things. They allow us a new perspective and give us reason to re-assign value to our possessions and sometimes, even the people in our lives whom maybe we've overlooked or taken for granted.

So I'm not saying that I'm suddenly at peace with the economic crisis, I'm just saying maybe it would help to think of the situation not as a "recession," but as a "renewal."

Or, as The Boston Globe's Drake Bennett put it so eloquently in his informative article "The Good Recession," you can think of this as one of many "periodic purges that burn off dead wood and make room for new growth." (I'm melting, I'm melting...)

My Brain is Melting

This past weekend, my boyfriend's parents were in town from Wednesday through Sunday, which meant absolutely no Christmas shopping was accomplished. And it's not like I'm going to have time to do any this weekend either.

The magazine is in print mode from now until the end of next Tuesday, which means my life is in lockdown. Sooo ... this week, I will be working 'round the clock, and then leaving on Friday morning for Oklahoma City for my friend's wedding (one in which I am a bridesmaid) ... Which means there's the rehearsal dinner Friday night, then the wedding on Saturday night ... Then the drive to Tulsa on Sunday morning and visiting with more friends and family ... Then the flight out of Tulsa back to Phoenix on Monday morning and heading straight from the airport back to work ... And then working for something like close to 48 hours straight as we try to seal the deal on the January issues ... And then BAM, it's Christmas Eve.

And so I am trying to figure out just exactly how and when (and what) I plan on buying Christmas presents for my family (Dad, Mom, sister), a gift exchange present for my coworker (whom I do not know at all), a wedding present for the bride and groom, a gift for my boyfriend's parents, and gifts to mail to my German penpal and her two little girls. Do I dare even open the Pandora's box of buying Christmas presents for any of my girlfriends, lest some discover who and who did not make my list, or should I just nix those gifts this year and give them cards instead?

My brain hurts.

I don't want to think about any of it right now.

Right now I just want to copy edit, drink hot chocolate and every once in a while take breaks to:

Paint like Jackson Pollack.

Work on my eyeballing skills.

Get a hole in one.

Make photos about coworkers and anonymously post them on the community fridge.

Build sand castles.

Wrap Me Up

I have this sweater. It's dark green, knitted, 100% cotton. Zippered. Hooded. A size small, with sleeves so long that I've always folded the cuffs back.

I think -- and I can't be certain, but I think -- I've had this sweater since my middle school days. So basically, I've owned and worn it for around a decade. Yikes, right? But even though I wouldn't say it's in absolute, perfect condition, I would argue that it doesn't look all that bad for what it's been through with me. Which, when I think about it, is a veritable ton.

High school. College. Sickness. Books. Movies. Flights. Nasty winters. Road trips. Quarrels with friends and lovers. First dates. Break-ups. Projects and papers. General rule-breaking and mayhem. Parties. Deaths. Photos. Holidays. Concerts. Moves. Vacations. Jobs. Perfect days. Perfectly terrible days. Singing and dancing and laughter.

Maybe it seems silly to go on about a sweater like this, but the thing has been around me for so long now that there's something very comforting about it. When I put it on, it's the next best thing to a hug from any one of my closest friends, all who have experienced so much with me and know me so well, but live so far away. And that is certainly welcome from time to time.

Photo by Sway Sovay

Direction

Robin: Come on, a wine tasting? What's the big plan for next Saturday -- Scrabble night?

Lily: Don't check your e-mail.

Robin: Why are you becoming this person? I heard that in college you once flashed the campus tour group on a dare.

Lily: Once, on a dare! (Pause) The other times were just for fun ...

But I'm not in college any more. I'd love to go back and be that person again, but you can't go backward, you can only go forward.

Robin: Um, false. You can go wherever you want. I guess the question is, where do you want to go?

From How I Met Your Mother, Season 1, Episode 5: "Okay Awesome"

A Day in Someone Else's Shoes

I am a big fan of the second-hand name brand clothing shops here in the Phoenix metro area, such as My Sister's Closet. A girl can find a pair of Prada shoes for a quarter of their original selling price, Coach handbags for a few dozen dollars and Oscar de La Renta tops and gowns for a fraction of what they would cost new -- all in great condition!

Not only does shopping at these kinds of places equal a lot of fun (what girl doesn't love buying glamour at famine prices?) and save a lot of money, it's also interesting from a social science point of view.

Sometimes I come across the oddest articles of clothing and try really hard to imagine what kind of an individual its previous owner was. This is especially fun to think about when I reach the shoe aisles, because some of the pairs are so lovely, and others

are entirely bizarre. I try to imagine the fancy dinners, the not-so-fancy dinners, the vacations in Italy, the vacations in Padre Island, the tennis matches and the college classes.

I think it would be interesting to discover the previous owners of the shoes I buy, just out of curiosity, just so I could see who it is that I unknowingly have something in common with. I wonder if she's like me. I wonder if she likes to read, if she likes to play sports and has ever traveled outside the country. I wonder what she does for a living. I wonder how old she is. Is she married? Does she have kids? I wonder if she even likes Chinese food, just like me.

Another curious thing to ponder is which women are out there right now, walking around in their favorite pair of shoes of the day and making memories, until one day, they, along with that pair of shoes and those memories find their way into a second-hand store, and then into my little hands. I could have passed her (and her shoes!) on the street!

Face the Music

I have two dance recitals this week, one tomorrow night and one on Saturday night. I've been taking a tap class for adults since August, and this week the end-of-the-year performances take place. Yesterday we had a tech rehearsal, and today was a dress rehearsal.

When I was a kid, events like this were beyond awesome. It was fun and exciting to wear a costume and perform in front of family and friends. But now that I'm an adult, I have a different perspective.

Oh they're still awesome, don't get me wrong. And for sure am I ready to proudly don my costume and perform my little heart out. But in my observations this week, I've noticed a disturbing component in all the hoopla ...

Now, there are moms who really get into the whole recital concept because they are proud of their kids and want to share in the excitement and joy of the festivities ... but then there are also moms who get super hyped up because they seem to be living vicariously through their adolescent daughters. These are usually women who danced once upon a time, when they, themselves, were in middle school or their teens. In an odd way, it's like these ladies can't let go of the past.

The situation is just a tad bit sad. I wish they wouldn't take themselves so seriously. We are a just a group of fun-loving, tap-dancing adults, and the recital should really be more about the kids, don't you think?