Open Apology

Dear Stomach;

Hi. How are you? Good I hope.........

Okay, this is an awkward beginning to a letter, but this is sort of an awkward letter to write. I know we are pretty close--have been for 25 years. I tend to believe we have molded a pretty solid relationship and will go on growing as the years continue. But with this, I know I have put you through quite a bit. Okay, that's an understatement. I have put you through A LOT. In a situation like this, I don't know how else to express myself and I'd really like to avoid another drawn out argument--we both know the last one was brutal. I figured writing a letter would be the best alternative as it will allow me to get all my feelings out at once. I know you're going to have a lot to say but please, just read this all the way through with an open mind.

Okay, here goes.

I am sorry.

For everything.

You've been angry with me lately and I honestly can't blame you. I have been fucking you over a lot and have only been thinking of myself. It's totally and utterly selfish and I realize that. And you have graciously forgiven me on numerous occasions--yes, I realize this happens WAY too frequently. Thursday night was just a bit out of control I suspect and I'd at least like to give a short explanation.

So Thursday was one of my monthly Girlfriend Dinners. You know, once a month I get together with my friends from high school, pick a restaurant and catch-up for a few hours. It's really a lovely time and usually you really enjoy it. Well, our monthly dinner fell during Restaurant Week in Philly, which we never miss. And since we each take turns picking a restaurant and we've tackled the majority of traditional cuisines, I suggested picking a Chinese/Japanese restaurant so we could get sushi. You know how much I love seafood and sushi.

So really what was the harm in my suggestion? You've seemed to always agreed with it in the past--and trust me if you had I wouldn't be eating it again.

Surprisingly, I got to the restaurant early and found two of my friends there as well. We decided to indulge in a pre-dinner drink just to take the edge off from the day. I figured a glass of wine would suit me fine. I gulped down my Riesling like water, only then remembering I hadn't eaten since 8 o'clock that morning. I'M SORRY!

Needless to say, I was drunk by the time my 4 other friends showed up.

Then, for some reason I thought it'd be a great idea to order yet another glass before our food arrived. And there was nothing on the table to gnosh on while we waited. So I definitely didn't help the situation.

Now, back to the sushi.

With the Restaurant Week menu, it was four courses-- you picked from four options from each, the last being dessert. The majority of the menu consisted of raw fish or sashimi. You know I love raw fish and I've had sashimi before--absolutely no issue last Valentines Day, remember? Well, as I said the majority of the choices consisted of sashimi in some form. So I loaded up. "Bring on the fish," I thought. Yellowtail, tuna, salmon, and that other fish that I can't say. And being drunk, I gobbled down every last bit. Seriously, three courses worth. I'll admit it was a hell-of-a-lot of fish. My one friend actually started singing songs from "The Little Mermaid," which I found pretty funny at the time.

Being drunk I guess I just couldn't stop and yeah, it was all pretty delicious. And true, my "STOP EATING! THIS SHIT IS RAW" alarm never went off in my head--I guess alcohol must silence those internal alarms. I polished off the majority of my California rolls and sashimi before I finally felt semi-full. Then the fried ice-cream was served. THE BANE OF MY EXISTENCE will now and always be ice-cream. Even though I was full, I scarfed it down.YOU KNOW HOW I AM!!

I honestly thought I was okay. I got through the meal, made it home, showered and was in bed by 11. I just figured you welcomed the multitude of food and enjoyed it as much as I had. Usually you do! So really, it's not my fault because everything seemed normal.

Obviously, I was wrong.

I couldn't get comfortable in bed. I couldn't lay on my stomach, on my side, on my back. Nowhere! A sharp stinging pain started to rise but I figured you were just full. And maybe I just needed to wait it out or maybe burp. Very quickly, I realized I was wrong. I bolted up right and ran to the bathroom. From 11pm until 4am, I was a devoted worshiper of the porcelain throne, as my dad likes to say. You showed me just how much you disliked my eating habits. In fact during that 5 hour time frame, you LOATHED me. Everything in me, every single morsel I ate was thrown-up into my toilet. Absolutely nothing could quiet you. And deep down I guess I knew I deserved it. So I let you have your way with me until exhaustion hit.

I guess my latest stint of food poisoning has made me realize a lot. And you sure made me pay for taking advantage of you once again. So I guess I'm just writing this to further my apology and possibly apologize for all the future occurrences. I will try and take it easy on the following foods;
      1. Buffalo wings/ anything with Hot Sauce
      2. Certain pastas
      3. Anything from Cheesecake Factory
      4. Diet Coke
      5. Onion Rings
      6. Hot Fries
      7. Greasy Fried Foods
      8. Beer

I can't promise I won't continue to indulge. That's just too difficult.
 

From here on out, I don't mean to hurt you, but sometimes I just have to.

                                            Love Always,
                                                Penny

PS- I'll be making that doctor appointment soon. I promise. Stop nagging!

Cherub

It had been a long day.

A day of welcoming, recalling names, standing in lines, crying, holding back tears, laughing, kissing, smiling, clutching hands, listening, processing, and saying goodbye to the most important man in my life.

My father was dead. At the young age of 62, he laid down to take a nap like any other day and just didn't wake up My mother tried to wake him--shook him, pleaded with him, but he never stirred. The paramedics said it was a heart attack and it was quick. That really he felt no pain and was lucky it happened in his sleep. Lucky that it hit him and he was gone. But his wife, mother, nine children and twenty-six grandchildren didn't feel lucky. They all, resolutely felt robbed.

And as did the droves of people who showed up at St. Martin's for his funeral. The church was packed full with old friends, co-workers and people who knew him from the neighborhood. There wasn't one young boy from our neighborhood who wasn't coached by my father at the after-school programs at the playground. The same boys were now men, marching up the aisle paying their respects to us--their beloved coach's family. It was an overflowing sight of love and respect for my father that truly touched me. It was truly a testament to his life and what he left behind.

But I was restless and uneasy.

Funerals are rough for everyone. I knew this all too well--my last funeral being for my still-born daughter nine years earlier. I was medicated and numb, but I felt every second of my loss as I gave birth to her knowing she was dead. I never saw her, it was too painful but we named her Frances before they took her away. She was buried in my parents plot, where my father would soon join her. I've never been to the cemetary.

This was different. I was sad like any other mourning child, but there was something else. Something that made the sadness even worse. I just couldn't figure out what it was.

And it ate at me all day and into that night when I was home, tucking my four daughters into bed. I kissed their eye-lids shut and watched as reality drifted into sweet, innocent dreams. I lingered in my youngest, Elizabeth's, room. My last baby, who would turn two later in the year. She'd never know her Pop-Pop, I thought as I closed her bedroom door and retreated into my bedroom.

**********************************************************************************


The light was blinding. Pure white, without even a blemish of color to be seen. I held my hand up to my eyes,  trying to give myself a few seconds to adjust. Where am I, I thought.

Peeking through my fingers, the light no longer stung my eyes. But fuzzy outlines started to form around me. Outlines that became people who I did not recognize. As they came closer, I realized they were also five feet taller than me. I was looking up at all of them--as if I was on my knees. I looked down to my legs and saw that I was standing at full height, but still everyone that surrounded me was far taller.

I suddenly felt extremely claustrophobic and wanted to get out. Or at least see something other then the knees of the people around me. I felt like a little child again. I--wait. A thought occurred to me.When I was little, anytime I lost Daddy all I'd do is stand on a chair and I'd find him. He was 6'3 and usually heads over most so he was always easy to find at that height. In that moment, all I wanted was a chair.

And for some reason, one appeared next to me.

I scrambled onto it and stood up tall, peering over the heads of the people around me.

And there he was.

Right in the midst of them all was Daddy. My heart skipped a beat just with a glimpse of him. "Daddy," I yelled and waived my arms towards him. I was so excited that I started laughing and crying at the same time. He was right in front of me, he never left!

But he looked right through me. He didn't even see me. I kept yelling his name and jumping up and down, but he didn't see. He looked around him with a blank stare. A stare that quickly changed to confusion and panic. He looked from side to side, almost frantically. He doesn't know where he is, I thought.

All I wanted to do was jump off the chair and run to him. To hold him forever and take him home with me. But from the corner of my eye, I saw a flash of a body appear ten feet from him and I froze.

It was a little girl. With light brown hair, that curled up into tight ringlets that circled her face. She was oddly familiar....That's me?

"Pop! Pop," she yelled as she ran towards him. He turned to her and stepped back. She took his hands in hers and she beamed up at him.

"Janie," he asked the little girl.

She shook her head no, and the smile on her face radiated warmth and love. She motioned for him to come down to her. He obeyed and she whispered into his ear. The smile passed from her to him and he swooped her up in a big bear hug. They both laughed and hugged for minutes longer. Then she pulled back, and motioned to the room and everyone surrounding them. My father looked with wander at all those who surrounded him, and they continued to talk. But I couldn't hear a word of it--all I could hear was a light buzzing sound, almost like a bees.

As they continued to talk, I saw a sort of solemness pass his face that eventually lifted to a calm. He looked back to the little girl in his arms. He smiled down at her again and rubbed her curls against his cheek. Then, without warning, he swung her around so her legs kicked out and she was flying. They both laughed.

It was only then that I saw the tiny set wings attached to her back.

**********************************************************************************

My eyes fluttered open. I was in bed and it was all a dream.

A dream that has stuck with me from then on after. I no longer felt uneasy about my father's death. Because I knew he was at peace and that my angel, my still-born baby Frances, welcomed him into paradise.

This is a retelling of a dream my Mother had the night of my Grandfather's funeral. She only recently told anyone about this dream, but it is something that has comforted her greatly in the years that passed both of their deaths.

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On this lovely MLK Jr Monday, the greedy, exploitative, dastardly assholes I work for decided they truly couldn't weasel another day of work out of us miserable slobs and gave us the day off. Thank you, dastardly assholes :) I truly appreciate this day to do nothing but think about how much I do not want to go to work tomorrow.

But anyway!

After a nice night's sleep, I woke up at the truly indecent hour of 10:30 and decided I was going to do nothing today but veg out. I sat down at my breakfast table with my dad, as he breezed through the morning paper and passed me the pieces he was through with. While enjoying my large glass of OJ, he almost spit out his coffee from laughter. Being a retired City of Philadelphia employee, he likes to browse the want ads for any worth-while jobs ("But I only want to work 2 days a week tops," he always reminds me). Swallowing down the remaining coffee in his mouth he passed me the part of the paper that caused this reaction and this is what I saw:

Naturally, I had to look at this twice. Which I'm sure you do, too.

Yes. You are looking at this correctly. This is an ad, in the largely popular Job Section of the Philadelphia Inquirer, for Cocaine Users to "come on down to University of Penn"--yes, I'm trying to say that in my best cattle call voice-- for a trial study on cravings and an experimental drug that could cure this.

If you are still shaking your head in wonder, you are not alone. Because I've had to look at this multiple times today to really process it. Here are my thoughts;

1. Is this for real or a drug bust? Like cocaine is still illegal in the United States right? Couldn't any drug-operative task force for the City simply wait outside these offices and pick these people up for drug use, and possible possession?  If I was a cop, I'd be down there in a second! Sorry, but it's the truth.

2.The ad is basic and there's no mention of an indemnity clause--so why would anyone feel safe coming out into the day light and admitting they use cocaine? Obviously if you are that avid of a user, you know how to use and keep it on the down-low. Who in their right mind would throw that away?! To add to that, do these doctors actually think they will have a huge amount of people knocking down their door to participate??

3. The money. This is a study for a drug to help with cravings and the participants will be compensated. Does it make sense to anyone that these people are being paid to be high on the off chance that these drugs "could" work? Obviously a prerequisite for this study is to be a person who uses enough to have cravings--an addict. An in order to get proper results, the addicts need to not only continue to use but use in excess so cravings are established. So, in a way the money needs to be used for the drug itself. Or if that's not the case, will the study provide the cocaine if at some point the participant can't afford it? Totally backwards, I'm sorry.

4. Obviosuly, a death-waiver will be signed in case a participant dies during the study. But shouldn't there also be a moral clause--if these participants die during the study, which is basically telling them to "keep getting high" and keep sobriety at bay for the time being, shouldn't something more be done? At least offer after-care where the participants are offered the option of rehab etc.or the resources to get clean.

I kind of know how these studies work as I participated in one during college. It was an oral HIV test that was about to be sent to the FIA and I guess they needed a few guinea pigs to make sure the thing actually worked. Now with the study I participated in, there were a few qualifications;

1. Could not be HIV positive or have been sexually active with someone who has been HIV positive.
2. Less then 2 sexual partners in the last year
3. Usage of protection in every sexual encounter
4. Between the age of 18 to 35

So, really it was an easy $160 bucks for me. I showed up for two weeks, twice a week, drank or ate different substances then had by mouth swabbed. They were testing to see if certain foods or liquids would cause a false-negative. I drank Coca-Cola, ate crackers, peanut butter and (nauseatingly) Chocolate Ensure. And within seconds, the results were in. It was an easy as a pregnancy test. Minus the anxiety.

And really the study was important in the long run, especially if it did get approved--the majority of people do not get tested for HIV because going to the doctor for the test scares the shit them. The oral, over-the counter test gives you the privacy you wouldn't have otherwise.

And I'm sure it's the same in this case. I realize Penn is trying to revolutionize and help those suffering with addiction and this drug could help millions get clean. And I'm also sure that the participants have to qualify in some way. I'm sure there's a list as long as my leg that you have to pass and they aren't just taking any junkie who walks off the street. The participants are probably people who actually want to get clean. But really? An ad in the Sunday paper? It seems more sensible to go to Addicts Anonymous or detox clinics.


Seriously, I would kill to be a fly on the wall at this study.....Just to see the types of people who actually show up as a result of this CRAZY advertisement.

Fairy Tales, Shmairy Tales

Has anyone else been watching the new show, "Once Upon a Time," the new show on ABC on Sunday nights at 8 pm  (in case you haven't and want to start watching)? Well I'm completely obsessed. Which only makes sense since I already had an unnatural obsession with Fairy Tales to begin with. And I'm not kidding--it's sick. I troll sites for new remakes, books, TV movies and (as I've already stated) mini-series. I can spot off names of most characters involved and could probably retell most with no prompting.

Yes, I am 25 years old and a fairy tale whore.

But honestly, I don't think I'm much different than any other girl. These stories seemed to be pumped into our veins like heroin since infancy. All little girls dressed as princesses on Halloween (and on just about any other day if we had the option), dreamed they were adopted at birth and our royal parents were out there somewhere. Sometimes, after a particular horrific fight, they convinced themselves that their mother was really an evil queen bent on their destruction. My mother certainly had a eerie resemblance to Malificient from Sleeping Beauty at particular times of the month.

But as I've gotten older and my obsession has matured, I've realized two things about most of these time-honored tales.

1. Those princesses were pussys
2. They gave in way too quickly

Let me explain.

In almost every fairy tale that involves a prince of some sort, our leading lady is a pretty, strong-willed and self-assured woman of her time. She knows her values, she works hard, takes care of herself and those around her, and fights for her freedom. Really modern-day feminists would probably see their roots in some of these characters (except for the whole "damsel in distress" crap, they are pretty solid women).

But then those damn, dumb-ass princes swoop in and their brains go to mush. The "princesses" forget who they are and what they had been fighting for--freedom and the right to answer to no one but themselves. They abandon everything they've built for a man who really just shoots a toothy-grin their way. The princes are dopes--they are never depicted with personalities, quirks or any individual characteristics that make them stand out. They all simply fill the role of "hero", with their perquisite love of danger and unnatural preoccupation with sword play. The princesses becomes wives without a second thought. And then they basically fall off the earth and no more stories are written about them.

Being a woman of the real world and of modern times, it's pretty obvious that I think these woman gave in too quickly. Like I said, they are pussys. Their lives were hard, no doubt, but the character of a person is made up of what a person does when these hard situations hit (little philosophical :) ). And what did these women do? They took the first opportunity that came their way at a comfy life. They made the easy decision--took the road most traveled by if you will. And honestly, those princes may have been "charming" to most, but for all they knew they could have been homicidal maniacs or got off on rescuing helpless females. And I guarantee they'd be heading for the door the second one of their children was sick or it became too much to handle.

Like what if there was another option for these "damsels"? Even another man for gods sake! What if they had just waited, say one more day, instead of jumping into the arms of a perfect stranger?

Let me paint a picture with a few examples.

Cinderalla

Awful life of neglect and servitude under the hands of her evil stepmother. Forced into basic slavery, due to the love and remembrance of her father and because she happened to be prettier than her counterparts. But, pretty handy with a broom and rodents. It's not an easy task to clean and run a manor all by yourself! Who's to say if she hadn't fallen head-over-heels for a man she knew maybe for an hour, that she couldn't have become a blooming entrepreneur. "Cindy's Cleaning Service," could have put her on the map for a reason other than having abnormally small feet and fitting into a glass slipper. Sure, her life would be more cozy and carefree as a queen, but wouldn't you have rather made it on your own and be financially independent?

Snow White

Again, a very charming and beautiful woman with a seriously sinister step-mother bent on her death. Pretty stupidly, she was blinded by her own compassion and didn't see the evil that lurked in her own castle. Until it hired someone to cut her heart out. She fled, moved in with a couple of tiny men, kept house for them until her past caught up with her. Then she ended up "dead" in a glass coffin. Frozen for all eternity. But she was even worse off than Cindy. Her prince just kissed her and she was expected to marry--no introduction or words, just BAM! You're in love! Sounds like mail-order brides in reverse to me. But what if, upon inspection of her new love she said "Ah...No thanks," picked herself up out of that coffin and started a life on her own. She was the "Fairest of them All," so I would like to think many would want to know her secrets and how she always had such a sunny disposition even in hard times. She could have left the forest and became a life coach--teaching all to be "The Beauty Inside." She could have inspired many to go on and live their lives, even if death threatens you at every turn.

But no. They both took the pussy way out and just gave up in to men.

To tell you the truth I can only think of one fairy tale woman character who had true balls.

Wendy

Sure, she's not a princess but an awful situation pushed her into Neverland and the arms of Peter Pan--being forced to grow up before she was ready. He promised her everything--adventure, no responsibilites, love and never having to be anything but a child. For awhile, this was what she wanted and she played into Peter's world. But she smartly saw beyond the fairy tale and realized the dream wasn't enough. That and Peter would be a perpetual man-child in more ways than one and he would never be anything but a stubborn ass until he ceased to exist (sounds like A LOT of my ex-boyfriends). She refused to stay in Neverland and went back to the real world to grow up. And it worked out for her. Peter still came and saw her, but she lives the life she chose.

Takes a lot to say no to the dream and decide on your own what your future could become.

As little girls, I think it's a bit damaging to not have more role models like Wendy to look to. No wonder so many 20-something year old's flock to assholes and lack luster relationships and stay in them for the comfort of being able to say "I'm not single." We've learned from the age of two that this is what society expects of us--to have horrible, awful lives until we meet our prince. Those 20 something year olds still expect him to come riding up on a white horse and for him to save her. When it doesn't happen like that and the pressure kicks in "to get married before I'm shriveled up and old," most trick themselves into believing the guy they happen to be with is their fairy tale. But in reality, he's just another asshole who has a different type of preoccupation with sword play.

Just a little food for thought.....

Why I Write

 Hey All! Thought I'd clear away the doom and gloom for a night and post a little story I wrote for a class awhile back. Enjoy!

“Here Jen, listen to this,” Dad says, as he turns the stereo way up, blasting the chorus of “Eight Days A Week.” Pounding on the dashboard of his truck, Dad keeps the rhythm and sings the harmony (or “with Paul,” as he always said). He likes to emphasize, with his eyes, the tricks of the song; when his part went up, so did his eyes. 

  “Seriously, Jen. Listen. They don’t write shit like this anymore. Just listen to that sound.” Trying to appease his request, I lean closer to the speaker, thinking that’s what he wanted me to do. I knew exactly what he was talking about; no one nowadays could sing a perfect harmony like the Beatles. No one wrote chords the way John and Paul did. No one could really do anything like the Beatles, and if someone tried, it never sounded right, according to Dad anyway. As the song ended, the look on Dad’s face was pure ecstasy.

           

“Ready for another?” he asked, quickly pushing eject, and popping the next CD in. I knew if he had his way, the songs would never end. And I can’t blame him; I feel the same way.

For as long as I can remember, the Beatles have been the major contributor to the soundtrack of my life. Almost all of my memories involve the Beatles in some capacity; crawling towards the record player as an infant to “Love Me Do”, watching my drunken parents and relatives dance to “Drive My Car” as a small child, and smoking my first cigarette in my backyard as “Eleanor Rigby” streamed outside from the house, just to name a few.  I grew up knowing the Beatles were important, and that they would impact my life in ways I could not imagine. Their music was my first true taste of an art form, but I know I was first drawn to it because of how much I love my Dad.

As a child of the 60’s and a young kid when the Beatles first came to America, Dad is beyond a fan. He has multiple copies of all their albums not just on CD, but he has his original vinyl’s, A Track’s, and cassette tapes. Yeah, he doesn’t use them, but he refuses to part with the “original sound” that new technology cannot recreate. That muffled, crackling sound that echoes out of the record player is how music should be heard, according to him. Music is supposed to awaken the senses, not dull them to sleep with simplicity and perfection. He plays every song, as if new, and never tires of listening to them over and over.

But, it’s not just the music; Dad is obsessed with everything to do with the Beatles. Every time a new book is published, which is often, regarding the music, lives, or really anything, he runs to the book store to buy a copy and then we don’t see him for a few days. Like a crazed teenage girl, he pours over the pages. I can imagine there are only so many stories, so he’s probably read the same thing over and over again. But he doesn’t seem to care. Maybe this time, he would think as he opened a new biography, someone has discovered something new; a new angle on a song, or proof that Yoko really did kill the Beatles. Dad is not a Yoko fan. Book after book, he feeds his interest and educates all those around him.

                                                                                                                     

And, as an eager pupil, that is what I love; the stories.

          

  Dimmed lighting, a cold glass of beer, and the Beatles softly playing in the background, is all Dad needs to start talking; revealing stories of the music and everything he knows concerning the Fab Four. From a young age I sat, head in hands, awe absorbed in every word he said. He talked like he was there himself and I convinced myself that Dad was the fifth Beatle, and that I was the only one who knew it. How else could he know so much? By telling those stories, I was let into a secret club. A club where only I knew that Ringo was not the original drummer, that Paul originally played guitar but switched to bass after George joined the band, or that John had a nervous break down after he made the infamous “…more popular than Jesus” comment. Dad only furthered my “fifth Beatle” belief when he talked about what was behind the songs I loved to sing; the deeper meaning beyond the words and guitar riffs.  I can still remember everything he told me…

“‘Let It Be’ was written during a time when Paul was really depressed. He and John were fighting a lot and he felt the band drifting. One night, he woke up to see his mother, Mary, standing at the foot of his bed. She had passed away when Paul was young, so he wasn’t sure if he was still dreaming. She said to him, “Just Let It Be”, an old saying she used whenever Paul was down. See, a lot of people think the ‘Mary’ reference is religious, but it’s not. It’s really about his mom.”

                                                Or

“Jen, it’s not about drugs! Everyone who listens to ‘Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds,’ just assumes that it’s about LSD. John wrote the song for his son, Julian. Julian drew a picture of a girl with ‘kaleidoscope eyes,’ and when John asked him what it was, he answered ‘It’s Lucy in the sky with diamonds.’ People are just crazy and want to tack a meaning on something they know nothing about!”

The stories lifted me to another stratosphere. For the first time I realized, songs are another avenue of storytelling. Songs can have character arches and description. They can paint a picture, and help the listener imagine a background, or what a character looks like. A song can move a music lover to tears. And, if a song moves us, then the artist did his job; to sing a song that has no personal clout or significance is pointless. Life is needed in a great song and the Beatles are masters of this quality. Not only are their songs catchy, but there is soul behind every word. Try listening to “She’s Leaving Home” without crying. Or “The Long and Winding Road” without calling your best friend right after. I could name song after song, and dissect even the minutest detail from it, because every Beatles song drives at emotion.

Dad wasn’t asking me to lean closer to the speakers. He was telling me how to approach music; to listen. Not to the sounds; to listen to music with an open mind, but also with my heart. The two, usually separate entities, are vitally important to seeing music as something more than just words and noise. By exposing me to the Beatles at a young age, he was showing me how to always look at music. Like a gene, he passed on his taste and the rather snobbish way he looks at everything before and after the Beatles. For that I can do nothing, but sit back, pop “Sergeant Pepper” into my stereo, turn up the volume, and listen.  

“We’re Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Heart Club Band. We hope you enjoyed the show…

Wanna be a Paperback Writer....

After yet another failed interview--which included 3 return visits, risking my current job by making up fake doctor appointments, driving an hour each way and paying tolls every mile--I find myself at yet another road stop. So assured was I that I had nailed my first writing/editing interview for a local medical publication that I started planning what I'd do with my huge pay increase. A European excursion was on the horizon and ready to be booked with one paycheck. Things were looking up for me.

For the first time in I don't know how long, I truly had hope for a better future.

A week later--only after sending an anxious followup e-mail--did I get the dreaded one sentence reply.

"We greatly enjoyed meeting you, but unfortunately we offered the position to the other candidate."

Never realized how much one damn sentence could hurt.

But maybe I'm getting ahead of myself.

I graduated from college in 2009 with my degree in English and Creative writing. I had aspirations of a writing career that spanned decades, that all would start with the completion of my first novel that was already at its half way point. I had figured I'd get a job in the editing field or more specifically writing for a local newspaper, as I already had a decent amount of experience. 

As I did the ceremonial sweep of my graduation cap tassel, the world seemed to have taken a literal shit. Beyond the hollowed walls of my university, the world was in the midst of an economic collapse and massive unemployment rates that we have yet to recover from. 

Mine is the story of most recent college graduates. Forced to take menial jobs just to pay the bills.

For me, that was a step into the financial field at a local credit union. More specifically in a call center--or as I'd like to call it "Hell". "It's a filler job," I'd tell myself at night after yet another excruciating day of answering calls and being called an idiot by lovely members who didn't understand that they couldn't put dimes into our ATMs (or as they liked to call, the "ATNT" machines). "It's just until my writing career picks up," I reminded myself. 

I wrote at night, finished my novel and starting looking for representation.

It's been two and a half years and no book deal and I'm still stuck at the bank. Sure, I've moved up in the world. I now process Consumer Loans in a separate department. But there is still a slightly demeaning part of working in a position that a trained monkey could do (trust me, she files our faxes).

So this job opportunity crossed my path and I figured I was a shoe-in and all of my problems would be solved. 

But life had another kick in the pants for me.

Days have been dark lately. Depression can really knock you on your ass in the worse way. I've gone through it before, but this time it seems a bit different. The intensity is more palpable. I have thoroughly scared the crap out of my family and a few of my friends lately and I deeply regret it. 

So what do I do?

A good friend of mine directed me to this site and one particular blog post by another creative woman who was going through a bought of depression. In her words and honesty, I found hope and light. And more importantly, I'm writing again.

This is what this blog is for. Me to vent frustrations. An outlet for my stories. Just a place to be me.

-PL