Dear King Obama
Thank you for sending me $8,123.46 in tax credit money. I will be investing this money wisely. Of course, I won’t invest wisely until I treat myself to sushi tonight, and buy a new digital camera in December.
Love,
Megan
P.S. I think you’re a good man. Keep your head up.
I just wrote a long post about how perplexed I am about Nashville’s obsession with feeding Africa, even though we have a disproportionate amount of homeless people for our size. But I deleted it, because some things are too cynical, even for me.
But still, I want to know why George Bush was lauded for sending tax dollars to Africa, and Barack Obama has been demonized for wanting to create a better healthcare system, so poor people can go to the doctor. That’s what I want to know.
And I want to know why the churches down the street from mine don’t want to partake in feeding the homeless. Or in fighting for legislation that could make housing more affordable, rehabilitation more accessible, and education more obtainable. That’s what I want to know.
I want to know why some people my age are fine with buying all their clothes from Urban Outfitters, who has employed tons of sweatshop workers in Bangladesh or wherever to sew for pennies, but they’ll train for a marathon to feed African children. Or why it’s perfectly acceptable for white collar bank executives to steal from the government — to steal from investors — but it’s stereotypical and anger-inducing for someone in the ghetto to hold up a liquor store.
I want to know when the double standard goes away.
Since my life is getting an overhaul, I decided to try to stop smoking again. The first time I quit, I went 9 months. The second time, only 13 days. Let’s see what happens this time. Also, here are the reasons why I want to quit:
1. I made it my New Year’s resolution to quit in 2009.
2. Two weeks ago my Aunt Gianene reminded me that cigarettes killed her mother, and they make me look like trash.
3. My mother made me promise I would quit in 2009.
4. I don’t want to get old prematurely.
5. I already have a host of stomach problems. Smoking only makes them worse, and I actually think I have a stomach ulcer.
6. I don’t want cancer.
7. I smell like smoke always, and it’s gross.
8. I’m tired of getting my winter coat dry cleaned.
9. When I don’t smoke, I do more productive things. For example, last night instead of taking smoke breaks from working, I started knitting a scarf. I learned a new pattern, and managed to knit two feet of lace.
10. Smoking makes me lose my appetite. Last year, when I increased my daily intake to one pack a day, I lost 25 pounds. I looked awful. I look awful now. And let’s be honest, I need all the help I can get.
So far, I haven’t had any terrible cravings. Any that I’ve had have been met with chocolate cake, ice cream, or black coffee. I think I’m about to gain 50 pounds.
Every time it seems tempting to pack up and try again somewhere else, these little people say something absolutely fabulous or hilarious or tear-jerkingly beautiful. And maybe you could tell me that kids everywhere do and say these things, but I wouldn’t believe you.
I’ve decided that when it comes to job hunting, normal social rules don’t apply.
Last night, when I was at Cafe Coco until 2:30 a.m. sending out resumes and trying to complete a writing test for a position I want to interview for, losing all battery power on my computer just wasn’t an option. My power cord was in my desk at the office, and I had about two solid hours of work to do before I could go home for the night.
I asked the guy next to me if I could borrow one from him, but he had left his at home, too. “You know what you should do, though?,” he said. “Go ask that college kid sitting in there. He’ll probably let you use his.”
So I go ask the Belmont student and his frat brother if they can help me out, and one of them instantly gets the wrong idea. I start to walk outside to have a cigarette, with his power cord already in my hand, and I hear him say to his friend, “Dude, I think she’s hitting on me.” He stands up and follows me out.
“Hey, can I bum one off of you?”
Oh, sure, I say, hoping that he won’t figure out that I’m almost 25 and I think of him as a little boy and I feel a little bit like a pervert for asking him for a power cord in the first place. Especially now that he thinks I have the hots for him.
He asks me where I go to school, and I pause for a second, trying to decide if I should own up to the fact that I could have babysat him when he was a kid. Instead, I lied. “Oh, I just graduated from Lipscomb this summer. I’m here trying to find a job.”
His face lights up, and I instantly feel like an asshole. “Oh, that’s cool, that’s cool. I’m just here with my little brother from my frat. He has study hours and I have to watch him, so like, it kind of sucks, but it’s whatever. It’s cool that you’re not working yet, just chilling, you know. But, seriously, you can use my power cord all night. I don’t even need my computer; I’m totally just chilling out, you know?”
I just went along with it. I started making shit up. I told Lipscomb wasn’t so bad, and that I was in a social club there (trying to appeal to the part of him that thinks paying hefty fines to harass people is awesome), and that I come to Cafe Coco all the time to hang out. He ate it up. “Oh, yeah? What’s your number? I’ll call you next time I come out here. Or, do you want to come with me to my frat’s Halloween party this weekend?”
I gave him a fake number. I combined my phone number with Jake’s phone number, and I gave it to him. And I’m sure that’s someone’s real number, and I’m sure that kid will send someone a text message this weekend, and I’m sure that I’m a complete asshole.
I took his power cord back to my table, where my friend Brian was sitting. “How did that go?” he asked. I told him I felt like a prostitute. All he said was, “I mean, I wasn’t going to say anything, but…well, fair enough.”
This will come back to haunt me someday. I’m sure of it.
The following things make me feel like I’m 21 again:
I find this enjoyable. I’m taking a writing test tonight and tomorrow night. If I do well, I will interview for a position with a big hotel chain next week. If I don’t do well, I will find something else to do. Jake Larson has the flu. Courtney is taking the GRE. Dawn starts a new job soon. Brother moved in with his girlfriend. I haven’t really talked to Justin in weeks. My living room is completely set up (and it looks like a 70-year-old grandmother bought all the furniture). My Dad is proud of me for doing nothing (again). I baked a loaf of bread and ate the entire thing for dinner, while watching two episodes from the fourth season of Gilmore Girls. A shitty band is playing in the background. I’m wearing a ring my Dad gave my mom in 1977. I’d like to smoke, but I’m not going to.
Things never really change.
I love Saturday mornings at Portland Brew more than anything. In front of me is a father eating omelettes with his teenage son, and to my left sits a young newly engaged couple, holding hands and looking at each other like they’re about to be happy forever. I won’t tell them they’re wrong. Behind me I can hear a mother speaking French softly to her daughter. The rest of us are typing away intently and refilling our coffee cups every 20 minutes or so. I’m 10 minutes from a cigarette break and a long way off from finding a job to replace the one I’ll lose in January.
But for some reason, I find all of this very exciting. I have a few freelance leads and I have very good friends who are sending me e-mail after e-mail filled with ideas. And I have a paycheck coming for a while to keep me going. Maybe I’ll be singing a different tune in January, but right now I feel really exhilarated.
I randomly showed up at a party last night and saw a lot of people I used to know in college. It was good to catch up and dance and drink and laugh, but as usual, I ended up on a quiet curb in front of the bar, catching up with an old friend. A lot of the people dancing inside were much younger than me, and I felt old, talking about being laid off and buying a home. But old in a good way, I think. A girl asked me if it felt weird to hang out with a bunch of people who are either unemployed or much younger than me, while she was straddling a 19-year-old’s leg and moving with the music. I laughed at her. “No,” I said. “I can pretty much hang anywhere, and honey, I wouldn’t trade positions with you for all the money in the world.”
I’m losing my job on January 31. It’s a weird sensation to expect something to come for so long, because when it finally does you can breathe a sigh of relief. I’ve been there full time for almost two years, and I interned for the company for two semsters prior to that, so I am ready for a change of scenery. What I’m not ready for? Not being able to vent to my editorial director when a client sends me a rude e-mail. Listening to other people’s stories about their children, whom I don’t know. Not getting personal advice from Megan when I’m almost in tears on a Monday afternoon. The overall uncertainty of the people I will (hopefully) work for in the future. Will they see any value in my skills? Will they excuse my wet hair in the morning? Will they give me advice about home ownership?
But, at the end of the day, it’s an employment agreement. And as much as you want to think it is, it’s not a family — and I don’t blame anyone for that. Now, the real question is, what the hell do I want to do with my life?
I took this picture right after my cousin, Katie drunkenly stumbled up to my mom and yelled, “Aunt Cindy, you’re the fucking shit!” I think my mom was proud of herself. Also, I think she’s quite pretty. She doesn’t look like she could be my mother, what with my dark hair and eyes and propensity for a sun tan, but we manage to be two peas in a pod anyway. I’ll post one of us together for good measure.
