Because five years is so obvious.


Advice from Someone Who's Been There

1. Whoops. Got new job and started new internet show. Forgot to blog.
2. Only Brian reads this anyways.
3. Sometime when it's almost midnight and you've just polished off a bottle of champagne, switching to bourbon is not the best idea. Maybe just go to bed instead, ok?


Keenly Aware of the Value of a Dollar

I'm only almost 28. Or I'm practically middle-aged with one foot in the grave, depending on my perspective that day. The thing is: I feel like I must actually be 72 or something because I am continually amazed that things cost what they do.

For example, it kills me to spend more than $20 on a pair of shoes. When is the last time a decent pair of ladies' shoes cost fewer than $20? I'm guessing it was when I was still wearing children's sizes or even before. Yet, all my adult life I'm constantly on a quest to find a pair of nice shoes in a price range WHERE THEY DO NOT EXIST. And if I'm being completely honest, I'd really rather they were $15.

My most recent pricing irritation relates to dust mops. I want to buy a dust mop for $12-$15. THEY ARE NOT OUT THERE. I've looked all over the internet - eBay, craigslist, froogle et al. I'm going to be forced to spend at least $25.

I'm not entirely sure who to blame, but Swiffer is at the top of my list. It's a whole separate topic, but stupid Swiffer has made disposable desirable thereby rendering cleaning tools that have been used effectively for centuries obsolete BECAUSE YOU HAVE TO WASH THEM INSTEAD OF JUST FILLING A LANDFILL WITH THEM.


New and Innovative Products

Funny how a commercial for a product called "Acid Wear" can sound like "Ass Aware" when one is barely listening and a weed whacker is running in the distance.

Oh that my ass were small enough for me to be UNaware of it.


Conventional Wisdom

So I was outside cleaning my window fans, finally having reached a point of frustration with them such that I no longer cared about their electrical well-being. They don't unscrew so there was no way to get at the blades manually and the thick layers of Los Angeles air dirt rendered vacuuming, air cans and any other cleaning options useless.

It seemed a good spray down was the only option before me. But what of the fans' moving motor parts? There was a time when I cared. It was past.

I decided the first step was to spray the grates and blades down with a good dousing of nature's grease cutter, vinegar. Then as if by magic, the dirt immediately loosed. It was beautiful. I nearly cried. Next up, I strapped the hose sprayer adapter onto the water source, set it to stun (Jet) and sprayed away like a maniac inflicting a shower of gunfire on her enemy. The whole thing was over in flash. I left the lifeless fans in the sun to cook and dry out.

Later, when I went to check on them, I noted something that prompted this tome. I'd left the vinegar spray bottle outside and now there was a FLY ON IT. I guess you can get a few flies with vinegar. Which explains how that hateful Elizabeth Hasselbeck (Or Crappelbeck, I like to call her) has any family or friends.


Dogs: NOT That Different Than Me

We both hate it when the Jehovah's Witnesses come to the door peddling their message of hope.



You know what I miss? Saltine crackers.

Of course, they're still around, but I just don't eat them much anymore. There was a period of my life when I would often mix up a can of tuna fish with some mayo and relish and crack open a sheath of saltine crackers.

You can do the math from there. It was tasty.

That is all. You can thank me later for sharing this delightful anecdote, Internet.


The Ultimate Material

"So... what are we going to do about this whole having-kids-during-end-times-global-warming thing?"

"Um, duct tape?"


Bad Idea

Deciding enough time has passed since the last time you tried to do an at-home Brazilian wax and surely they must have improved the quality of do-it-yourself products.

Nope. They haven't.


Dare I Say?

I think the more senior gentlemen who live on my street have really warmed up to me since I started staying home and doing traditional lady things like wearing an apron, shaking out rugs & blankets and gardening.

When I brush the flour off my hands mid-pie-crust-rolling and run out to meet the mailman in my apron, it's like I'm bringing a comforting piece of 1955 back to the neighborhood.

And now the neighbors say "hi" and wave from across the street. Ah, misogyny.


Mean Vagrant

This whole layoff-induced work-at-home thing has really surprised me in that it's been completely difficult and at times, depressing. I did not expect that. I thought it would be a constant party (a productive one, but one all the same); I expected more fun lunches and sunshine* and Bloody Marys and less staring at the wall and L&O.

When I tell people that working for myself has been hard, most immediately jump to "Yeah, it's hard to motivate yourself and manage your own time." But that stuff is pretty easy for me - most of the time - because I used to be a total slack ass. Marta circa 2000 could piss away entire days watching television and eating last night's pizza like nobody's business.

So when we decided that I would write instead of finding another cubicle to park my ass in, I made some serious decisions about time management and I've largely stuck to them. I make lists. I meet goals. Plus unlike 2000 Marta I like to do more stuff than watch TV. Like cook. And read. And stuff. So that's motivating.

So, you might ask, "What is hard about working at home?

For me, it's feeling useless no matter what I actually accomplish. Because there's not really anyone there to watch or notice besides Brian and let's face it: he's biased. I guess I'm like that stupid celebrity quote about life not worth living unless people are watching or whatever. Without a boss or coworkers, it's like what I do doesn't exist. And I know that I'm ramping up to a place where I'll do this work and have a work structure, but for now, I'm going a tiny bit nuts.

Sometimes this manifests itself in weepiness, which I hate. Today it's just making me feel dark and snarky. I feel like taking an optimistic second grader down a notch. Saying something really morale busting, like "Oh sure, it's all sunny now, kid. But just wait until life kicks your ass." And then I'd swill from some brown-bagged beverage.

I guess what I'm saying is: I feel like being a mean vagrant. Eh. I still think it's better than weeping.

*Seriously. "May Gray?" That's what all the weather people are saying now. Um, I've lived in LA for 3 and a half years and this is the first I've heard of this. So now, Weatherpeople, you're telling me I have to endure "May Gray" AND "June Gloom?" What's next, you motherfuckers? "July-Poke-Me-in-the-Eye?" Sunny southern California, my ass.

Dogs: Different Than Me

Because even if I could lick my own ass, I would not. I would especially not do that and then try to lick a person in the face afterwards.


Can we all agree...

That the term "injectable filler" is just nauseating? Listen, I don't really care if you wanna Botox your face or cram Restalyne in your lips; I've seen good work and bad work. I may even try it myself one day.

But really? I-N-J-E-C-T-A-B-L-E F-I-L-L-E-R?

Frankly it just makes me think of caulk. And I don't want caulk in my face. (Yes, it *is* a funny sentence out loud, you 14 year old boy).


Reason #84759 Unemployment Rocks

Can I just say? I love the theme song to the Dr. Phil show. I've always felt like if it had lyrics - right after the musical ramp-up at the beginning - they would be "I am Doctor Phil and I am going to change your life. I am Doctor Phil and I am going to change your LIIIIIIFE!" Then for the very last part, a little more quietly: "My naaaame is Doc-tor Phil!"

Next time it comes on, just try not to think of my lyrics.

On a semi-related note, does anybody remember when Oprah sang her theme song and the lyrics at the very end were "Ooooooo-ooooo-op-rah"? I also loved that.

Dogs: Different Than Me

Personally I think the mailman is an alright guy.



I'm sick of pretending.

Oatmeal: I'm done with you. You've used up all your chances. I'm sorry, but just don't like you that way. For breakfast. Or any other meal.



My husband just walked by and said, "It would be weird to be a pelican!" The comment came seemingly out of nowhere.

A few moments later, he followed that up with, "That would be nothing like being a human."

Nope. It sure wouldn't, Babe.

There was also some story about a pelican rescue in Florida that I honestly only got snippets of. Sorry, Dude, I was too busy typing this.


Letting Go

In the last decade or so that I've been "on my own" in the world, I have lugged around the guilt that I feel each time I have to toss leftovers (or in some cases never used) food items that have gone bad.

I'm so sorry:

Half used cans of tomato paste. It's not my fault that every recipe only requires a tablespoon or two of you.

A few months ago an Epicurious recipe told me that some Indian potato and rice dish would yield four servings. Um, yeah, maybe they meant servings for FOUR SEPARATE FAMILIES because those leftovers took up more than half the fridge space. I tried valiantly to get through it all - even making a fritatta - but, alas I wasn't really wild about the meal on its first appearance.

More containers of milk than I can remember, from back in the day when I drank the mucus-inducing junk.

Various and sundry other items which I cannot recall yet still feel guilty about discarding.

I would like to say that the confessional helped me let go of some of this guilt, but there's just another batch in refrigerator creating moldly guilt as we speak.


Kids These Days

If ever you want to feel equal parts old and creeped out, I recommend spending some time looking at your 17 year old sister's MySpace page. If you don't have a 17 year old sister, I'm sure you can find another MySpace page loaded with things like players with the song "Do It With the Lights On," pictures of underaged kids with beers in hand , teenage girls making out, and captions like "They Say I'm Like the Desert but Hotter" and "You Know You Want It."



I got a check in the mail today.

Marta: Staving Off Homelessness Another Day

Contradiction in Terms

I've been exercising lately. Like consistently, for a week or something. Which is close to my all-time record for continued regular exercise. I am easily distracted.

So I was trying to do some sweet ab moves today and the instructions in Shape Magazine call for the use of a so-called stability ball. Surprisingly I do have one so that wasn't a problem. No, the problem was the fact that they expected me to be able to use it while simultaneously controlling my body, staying balanced and generally not flailing around.

Yeah, not so much.

Stability ball is the most archetypal oxymoron I've encountered of late.


Dogs: Different Than Me

Because when someone is nice enough to feed me, spend time with me, brush my hair, vacuum my bed et al, I DON'T SPEND THE DAY DOING THE EXACT THING THEY ASKED ME NOT TO DO LIKE BARKING MY HEAD OFF AT THE NEIGHBORS.



Ew, who licks a couch anyway? What could possibly be gained from that? Unless it was a flavored couch... like hot and sour soup flavor. But I digress.



What to write, what to write... Brian is sitting across from me, type-type-typing away, and I, the writer of this fearless pair, am stuck. I'm debating. Shall I share a childhood memory with this (mostly) imaginary readership... or something more immediate? But what's happening immediately? Uuuuuuuuuum, I'm drinking some wine? And watching Brian type? Yes. Riveting. I'm aware.

I'm clicking the keys because I feel like something's there. More accurately, I feel like something SHOULD be there. But godammit - the dogs are making a lot of noise. I mean, honestly, does faux-battle require THAT much growling?!?!? And jumping!??!?!

I guess what I'm saying is: I'm fussy. Annoyed by the noise of the animals (human and otherwise) that I love. I'm fussy because I'm things, writing-type-things, are supposed to be flowing freely and they're just stuck with nary a day job in sight to assign the blame.

Grr. I thought this blog was about the funny. Not about the fussy.




There is no equilibrium in my mind lately. I feel like I should have a warning tattoed on the side of my head about its contents. I'm in a constant state of push and pull against myself. To be honest, I'm feeling a little like Gollum* right now.

For example my inner dialogue goes something like this:

"I'm doing a great job. Each day I accomplish at least something. Rome wasn't built in a day."

""Noooooo! We hates the something. We're useless. We don't do anything worthwhile."

A more concrete example: this morning I literally just stood in front of the mirror for a bit, weighing the pros (clean mouth, fresh breath) and cons (lots of gagging) of scraping my tongue. In the end, I scraped. Like every other morning.

Conflict is supposed to be the "thing" that fuels stories. Makes it interesting. But right now, it's really just making me feel like I live on the outskirts of Crazyville.

*How dorky IS this blog anyway? I'm not even *that* person, but already, in its short existence, this page has seen Harry Potter, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and Lord of the Rings mentioned. And I've never even seen Star Wars.


Dogs: Different Than Me

Because when I lie awake at night, in the wee hours of the morning, I'm not obsessively licking my feet. I'm obsessively worrying about money.

Mission Accomplished, Sensei

We totally saw TMNT. And it was better than imagined.

Honestly, I'm not a movie reviewing blogger, but TMNT is worth the price of admission (besides the great story, it was simply the most beautiful animated film I've ever seen). And nachos. Oh, and don't forget your rum. But here's a tip: if it's a self-serve fountain, put the soda in first. Because if you, um, add the liquor first, it eats through the wax and you might - hypothetically, of course - spill soda all over the theater. And that, my friends, is no way to have a cowabunga-good-time.

P.S. To the filmmakers: did the actual conversation about April O'Neill go like this, "No, no. Make her arms skinnier and her RACK larger. No even bigger than that. And can you do something about her waist?"


Dogs: Different Than Me

Call me crazy, but I have better things to do with my time than look for new and "interesting" places to poo in the yard.


Lyrical Master

Sometimes I like to look up lyrics to popular music on the inter-web and then sing along, home alone, like it's my own private karaoke. Dolly Parton really loves it. She chases me all around and tries to lick my face whenever I'm belting one out (My dog, not the acclaimed, petite Country-Western singing icon).

Anyhoo... one recent lyrics search returned this:

Whohoe, whihoo
Whohoe, whihoo
Whohoe, whihoo
Whohoe, whihoo

Those, my friends, are the "lyrics" at the beginning of Gwen Stefani's "The Sweet Escape."

Dogs: Different Than Me

Because if my toothpaste tasted like savory chicken or beef, I would enjoy having my teeth brushed a whole lot more.

An Open Letter to Google

Dear Google,

I heart you, but it makes me completely despondent to think that we'll never enjoy an employee/employer relationship just because I'm entirely unqualified to work for you. As such, I offer up the following list of my stellar attributes that might persuade you to hire me in lieu of a kick ass resume:

1. Because I'm, like, really, really nice and your motto is all about not being evil and stuff.
2. I have two dogs named Grandpaw and Dolly Parton and I would totally bring them to work to amuse people. Do you know we trained Grandpaw to close the door on command?
3. That's just one step away from teaching him to get a beer from the fridge. Think about that for a hot minute.
4. I work really hard at stuff that I'm obsessed with as long I'm obsessed.
5. I don't know what that could be at your company.
6. But if we figured it out -- well, see reason number 4 above.
7. I cook lots of tasty food and then bring it to work to share.
8. Because I don't need all those calories.
9. I am particularly innovative at household solutions.
10. Like for example, I'm really bad at putting away my clothes, so you know what I did? I outfitted a wardrobe with tons of hooks and now I just hang my clothes on the hooks when I'm not wearing them, and they're not all over the floor anymore.
11. "Marta: Too Lazy for Hangers or Folding!"
12. Do you think that's a good slogan for me? I just liked yours so much, I thought...
13. I've been watching a lot of Law and Order lately so if you have any legal questions and your "guys" are busy, I could probably provide a passable answer.
14. Mixes a mean cocktail.
15. I should have a Bloody Mary now. That sounds good.
16. Damn, just remembered: out of V8.
17. Recently started using coupons (read: fiscally minded).
18. My husband is really rad. He knows a lot of stuff so if I was working for you, I could always ask him for help when I didn't understand all your computer-y stuff.
19. If compensated well enough, I'm one hell of a snappy dresser.
20. I really need some yellow patent leather peep toe pumps.
21. And a timeless black pencil skirt.
22. Never had a cavity. Ever. Think about how much money you could save on dental insurance thanks to me.
23. I used to be a television reporter so I can regale you all with stories about frenzied crime scenes and salty old news directors.
24. Actually all my news directors were just kind of 30-something dicks trying to prove themselves through the power of micromanagement.
25. But still, crime scenes and live television. Fascinating!
26. Loves linen water (read: always smells nice).
27. Is it okay to end on the linen water one? It's kind of weak, but I'm tired of this.


Big Brother

They are reading my ranting.


Cruel & Unusual

Don't they say torture doesn't effectively motivate a person to reveal anything? I think they do. But since our President is so keen on torturing people, I have a step-by-step idea for him.

1. Get the terrorists' dental impressions
2. Have them wear bleaching trays twice a day for an hour each time
3. On the sixth day, have the terrorists wear the bleaching trays to bed BECAUSE THE DENTIST SAID THEY COULD WITHOUT ANY ILL CONSEQUENCE
4. The next day ask them anything and they'll tell you whatever you need to know BECAUSE HOLY GOD THE PAIN, THE BLINDING TOOTH PAIN

I don't care what they say, I would tell anyone anything right now. Ow. I think I'm going into shock.


Heroes in a Halfshell*



M reclines on the couch; B on the loveseat as they watch television. Grandpaw and Dolly Parton are sleeping next to them, respectively, on the couches.

B fast-forwards through the commercials. He stops short and plays the new trailer for the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles movie. As it ends -

That actually looks pretty good.

Uh. Yeah. (a beat) That looks really good.

And all the early buzz is that it's good...

Dude, seriously, that looks smuggle-some-rum-in-and-get-some-nachos -- nachos, not popcorn, because-we're-not-screwing-around -- good.

"Nachos: Because You're Not Screwing Around. That should be the Nacho Board's slogan or something.


*Alternate title: Please Forgive the Lack of Formatting on Blogger.



Each day I try to drink lots of water. Lately my measurement has been two pitcher-fulls based on my new Ikea pitcher which I like very much.

So, riddle me this: if I pour water from that pitcher in mixing a cocktail, does that go towards my daily required intake?


Last week B and I trekked to the ever-so trendy Downtown Los Angeles for my sister-in-law's new office's open house. And while we were circling endlessly down one-way streets for a place to leave our vehicle, I noticed something: THERE ARE INTERESTING PEOPLE DOWN HERE. LOOK AT THEM ALL! STANDING AROUND! LOOKING AT ART!

I guess revitalization comes complete with fascinating art-lovers.

Art aside, I've always loved the idea of loft living and peering at all these people in their art gallery aquariums really amplified my romantic notions of gritty urban dwelling.

Suddenly, though, I'm not sure about it anymore. See below for the email I sent the following day:

Not sure if you guys know this but there are hideous giant rats on Hill St. I heard it squeak and saw it scurry. Thank God the bums were there to distract me or else I might have lost it.


That night I awoke with a start: rats nightmares. Yeah. Not so sure about that.



Lately I’ve been thinking I should be more interesting. You know, like people who are cool? They always know a lot of stuff, and a lot of people, and a lot of music and crap like that. And they have varied interests, like other than drinking excessively. They’re the kind of people who know how to update their own iPods and don’t make their husbands do it for them because they never wanted to figure out something simple for themselves. And when they update their own iPod, they probably don’t put “Fergalicious” on it (listen, you need something catchy and upbeat when “you’re up in the gym ,just workin’ on your fitness,” okay? Geez).

I’m honestly really lacking in a lot of those things that make people interesting. Like that aforementioned thing about wanting to do more than get boozed up all the time. For example, if I were not married to my live-in iPod updater, and I had to date online or something, my profile would probably be something like the following: I like to eat food, and drink booze. I hate cats. I like dogs. I think dogs are nicer than a lot of people. I like to laugh at funny stuff. I have 2 brothers and 2 sisters. Um. That’s all I guess. I like good things. I hate bad stuff. The End. Oh wait. Also, work sucks. The End, For Reals.

If I were more interesting, I’d list stuff like all cool books I read or this cool British band that I love that no one else had heard of or I’d include some awesome quote about existence and junk. Also, I’d probably wear more hats and live in New York City. Like all the interesting people. Who ride the subway everyday. And have lots of friends. Maybe I'd go to museums or art galleries.

I dunno, though. It’s kind of nice just mentioning a song that you like and finding it on your iPod later. And not having to make fun of art all time.


How I'm Like Harry Potter

I’m sorry, Environment. I admit I’m a long showerer. I recycle for You and use energy-saver lightbulbs, but I cannot get in and out of the shower in any fewer than 15 minutes. On a good day.

So today at about the halfway point of my long shower, Grandpaw and Dolly Parton went seriously berserk. Barking their little canine heads off. They were so ferocious I honestly started to get a little nervous that someone was breaking into the house. And suddenly, in the midst of their intimidating aural display, a shooting, burning pain zapped through my right calf. I instantly twisted around to look at it, thinking perhaps I’d nicked myself while shaving even though it really hurt more than that. But no, no razor nick. No blood. Just my usual leg with its perfectly shaped triangle scar.

Unlike some, I love 95% of my scars. There are one or two on my face that I might have laser resurfaced someday, but mostly, I like to be reminded of how Marta became Marta and scars are a nifty little roadmap to that end.

This particular scar – the calf triangle – is associated with one of my favorite histories.

About a year and a half ago, I was at MAGIC, hosting a series of segments for my old job. It was a true run-and-gun kind of shoot: just myself and a camera guy, running around the Las Vegas Convention Center for 2 days of blurry, breakneck shooting. Our last stop before racing to the airport to head back to LA was at the Chick by Nicky Hilton booth. We didn’t know if we were going to have enough time to get the interview and make the flight, but we had to try because, you know, Nicky Hilton is so huge and famous (or something like that, I’m told). Anyway, we were waiting in a line that wrapped around the booth with the other would-be interviewers when my triangle scar was singed into my leg forever.

There were little lights all around the base of the outside of the booth and apparently some Einstein hadn’t stopped to think about how surface-of-the-sun hot these little lights get and how someone might accidentally brush up against them. Like me. It was just a fraction of a second, but it left a hot, blistery burn that when it healed weeks later, left a perfectly shaped triangle.

So today when the dogs were barking, and my scar suddenly stung a lot at the exact same time, I thought, “Hmmm. Maybe Nicky Hilton is my Voldemort, perhaps she’s on the front steps right now and that’s why Gramps and Parton are losing their shit*.”

*Nope. Turns out it was just a bum rustling through the recycling.



2011, Here I come. I have a plan. And for the first time in my life, it’s not just a to-do list of all the things I might-maybe-want-to-kind-of get done… someday. Nope. It’s actual plan. Like for grown-ups. Some of its features include action items, deadlines and objectives. Impressive, no?

My husband B and I made the plan over the last weekend when we holed up a nice, but otherwise nondescript hotel room and forced ourselves to stay away from the hooch, at least until dinner (On a Saturday? Preposterous!). We each made a list of 43 goals and compared notes. Who knew B wanted to host SNL? I mean, I guess we all do, but he put it on the list. I had things like walk the dogs more.

Quickly, you should know the dogs, Grandpaw and Dolly Parton, are fat. Ms. Parton more so than Gramps. But they really do need more exercise. So now I walk them with their backpacks on, loaded with canned goods so they can burn more calories. I think they want to kill me because of those backpacks.

But anyway folks, back to the matter at hand. The plan.

It’s a big thing to map out your life, years in advance. It’s wrought with all kinds of hazards. You could accidentally wind up too married to said plan and miss a really great opportunity because it’s “not in the plan.” You might also find yourself stressing about things that are literally a THOUSAND DAYS AWAY. Not healthy.

My personality type (completely insane) leaves me much more vulnerable to that latter pitfall. I,um, tend to be a bit of a worrier.

A brief example:

Yesterday B and I decided to go to the gym after he was done with work. So I thought it would be convenient to bring his gym clothes with me when I picked him up so we could just go straight to the elliptical epicenter. However, this plan probably shaved a good 7-8 months off my life in the long run because I spent a lot of time and energy worrying about WHAT I WOULD DO WHILE I WAITED FOR HIM TO CHANGE INTO HIS GYM CLOTHES. HOW EVER WOULD I FILL THOSE TWO MINUTES? I don’t like the gym at all. I just like to get on a machine and get the hell out of there. The place makes my skin crawl and I can only go there if the buddy-system is in full-effect.

So I thought of the following solutions to this quandary:

1. Stay behind in the car for a few minutes and meet him inside after he’s changed
2. Sit in the chairs in the lobby of the gym and try to look cool (yeah, right)
3. Mill about juice bar as if I’m pondering a purchase
4. Wash my hands somewhat slowly in the women’s locker room
5. Just start working out in advance of his costume change

Then I had a brilliant idea! Hurrah! This will save the day! B can just change in the car on the way there! And I won’t have to figure out what to do in those two horrible minutes left alone in the gym!

Whew. That was a close one.

This is going to be a long four years.


And so it begins

Two weeks ago yesterday, I lost my job. Or I should say, they told me to get lost because it's not particularly accurate to say I lost my job. I know exactly where it is. It isn't hiding under some couch cushion or deep on some shelf piled over with crap. Nope. The job is exactly where it's always been. They just don't want me in it anymore.

I'd know it was coming for a few days. A former investigative reporter, I'm pretty good at getting the scoop, breaking the story, blowing things wide open… as they say. And yet, 15 days later I find myself surprisingly kind of bummed about it.

By way of background, I despised this job. I accepted their offer almost 3 years ago and at first, it wasn't such a bad gig. But as with most things, the bright, sparkly sheen of newness wore off. And that wore me down. The gray, soulless cubicle. The oppressive fluorescent lighting. The booboisie I was made to toil beneath. The ever-changing job duties that somehow left me doing the exact kind of work I'd always sworn I'd never – never, ever – do. 2001 Marta would be so disappointed.

Which is why this vague sadness after being told to hit the road is so surprising.

Wouldn't you think every day now would be a party? A celebration of the end of a GoTV-induced depression that always sat like a rock in my shoulders? Yeah. Me too.

I can't tell if it's the fact that my ego got a little pummeled. Or if it's the full tilt panic that creeps up like bile from the depths of stomach up into my throat whenever I try to think about what to do next. Or if it's the fact that lately, the most interesting part of my day is watching our robotic vacuum cleaner circle the house wondering if it will get hung up on all that which poses an obstacle for the little Roomba.

"Oh my, I can scarcely handle the suspense! Will the Roomba make it back to its dock, cleverly avoiding the treacherous kitchen cabinets where it might get stuck???"

Maybe it's all of these things.

Now each day I wake up I tell myself, "Today will be the day that I'll finish all the things I've been meaning to finish for so long! Today that script will be done! That closet will be organized! Those dogs will get all the exercise they need!" But for some reason, each night I realize I've fallen farther behind the goal. Farther behind than before even -- because now there are so many more expectations… Free time, the time away from the 9 to 5 (or 7 or 8) grind, is now loaded with so much pressure and expectation because there's so much of it in my life. All the excuses that come bundled in that tidy package of employment – "Work has been so crazy this week" are gone. Lost, like my job, I guess.

So now when the mascara comes off, and the doors get locked and dogs get their nighttime chewies and lights turn off, all I got is the raw, suffocating self-awareness that tells me the reason things didn't get done is all on me.