I.HATE.NATIONAL.GRID. (Even more than Verizon)

For those of you who know me, you know I love these three things more than anything in the universe:

• Coffee
• Cats
• Cuddling
• (and Reality Television)
• (and Purple and Pink - tied.)

And those of you who I've loved enough to let you see my angry side know I HATE these three things:

• Verizon
• Sallie Mae
• Sitting in traffic

I have a new enemy, and that is National Grid Electric. They have asses where their souls should be.

I moved to the town of Everett this January during what we all know has been the worst winter in the history of New England. After two power outages that lastest entire days, I wasn't so excited about about the move or NG's lack of efficiency at getting the electricity back up and running. Right around the time of Outage Number Two I received a letter in the mail telling me that there would be service interruption for Unit 1R. 1R sounds like me, I thought, even though my apartment is number 2. I am on the first floor and if you face my house, I am on the right. Well, I'll call and make sure, I thought - even though I'd already received a bill. Now couple this with the fact that even after the storm was over and power was back up, I had about half power. My entire kitchen didn't work - not enough power for the fridge to run consistently or for my stove to function at all. And then later the hot water... that was the last straw.

So I call, tell them about the letter, tell them I have dim power, my kitchen appliances don't work (I don't know about you, but I feel a working kitchen is a necessity) and ask them what's going on, and they say the two are un-related. I should not experience service interruption (ON. UNIT. 1R.) and they'd send someone out to look at it. Long story already too long, NG comes out three times, I tell them I'm in Unit 1R, they can't find the problem. They tell me it's my landlord's fault, my landlord (who is an electrician) cannot find the problem and attempts to call NG several times to sort it out and they won't come out again to the property to meet with him, because they've essentially met their quota of times trying to help me, and, as they claim, it's not their fault.

I finally get the two of them to actually converse and the light bulb (pun intended) goes on. I am being billed for the power on the second floor. And they've been checking Meter 2, which, of course, is running efficiently. Seriously. Seriously. Isn't that what I asked about when you sent that nasty letter about shutting off my power? Seriously. And what part of 1R do the stupid faces of the stupid socially inept guys who come out to pretend to fix my power not understand? Stupid NG Guy #1 took a look at my breaker, a look at the meter, and a look at my un-working kitchen, scratched his head and said, "Wow, I've never seen this before." And then proceeded to tell me my fireplace was very nice and could he have a glass of ice water? I.Don't.Have.Ice.My. Refrigerator.Isn't.Running. Here, let me get some snow and from the front stoop and put it in this lukewarm brita water for you. And we aren't making small talk if you can't fix my power.

Three National Grid visits, two cold showers (and others at the gym, and other days I decided to say screw it and be stinky), too many fast food runs, and several screaming phone calls later (with customer "service" reps telling me to calm down - really!?!? let me take your stove and hot shower away for even a day and then you tell me you aren't at least a little bit grumpy), I have full power restored. Thirteen days later. One hot shower, an episode of The Bachelor (which was, mind you, interrupted for 3 minutes on the DVR when they had to turn my breaker off and back on again) and I'm feeling slightly more sane. But I will never forget my pioneer days during the first couple weeks of February (yes, the settlers took many cold showers, and of course made lots of trips to McDonald's).

I.HATE.YOU.NATIONAL.GRID. (Even more than Verizon. And that is a lot.)

There Is Beauty In The Bellow Of The Blog

To blog or not to blog? That is the question. For over a year, the answer has been NOT to blog. But I'm back and better than ever, and I want to share a few thoughts about injustices which occurred during my vacation and call out the folks responsible for them:

1.) Crying babies on planes. You are a bad parent if your baby cries for an entire plane ride. Why did you take that baby on the plane at 9 PM? Isn't it past her bedtime? It is certainly past mine. You are not only a bad parent, you are a bad human being. I did not pay $150 to be locked in a small chamber with YOUR screaming baby for two hours. I would like to propose the invention of a "family" area at the back of the plane, behind a soundproof wall. You, the bad parent, the screaming baby, and a flight attendant that wears earplugs and gets paid a crap-ton of money.

2.) Sallie Mae. I already hate you. A lot. Don't call me or my family while I'm on vacation. What part of VA-CA-TION do you not understand? Meaning vacation from jobs, responsibility and all misery. You Mae, should change your name to Sallie Misery. I am going to put you in the back of my plane with the screaming babies.

3.) Bosses who yell at employees for telling the truth. Why are we all pretending that nobody has ever used a "sick day" to go to the beach or to stay in bed and eat ho-hos all day? So why chastise an honest person for telling you her best friend surprised her and she will respectfully take the day off? You are just jealous, angry boss man. You make a crap-ton of money and you know that your non-existent friends would never fly across the country to surprise you. You know where else you can make a crap-ton of money and have no friends? As a flight attendent in the back of my noisy baby plane. I banish you there with Sallie Misery and the angry babies.

LOVE,

Penny

Square Peg, Round Hole

Remember when I had a blog? That was neat. I'm slowing re-claiming my life, so I hope that there will be more frequent blogs in the future.

Ever wonder why some things just don't work out, try as you might? I think one of the hardest things to accept in my life has been knowing that I have bent over backwards to make something work and still, it fails. My inclination when a situation isn't right is to keep pushing harder.  But some things just weren't meant to be, and some things just don't come naturally.

I have been a Square Peg in the round world of my job for almost an entire season now. Try as I might - I just don't quite fit. From a distance, sure, it looks like it might work and then you look closely and... nope I'm still square. And I'm not talking about square as in conventional and boring, I'm talking about being the wrong damn shape. Now that I think about it, perhaps I'm more of a trapezoid or a rhombus or perhaps even a diamond... ooh yes those all sound less insulting.  

You gotta wonder, why doesn't my job just straighten its corners out a touch?  Allow some room for this shining diamond in the rough to make a place for herself? Well, those with round minds continue to think in the same circles they've always been trapped within.  To them, trapezoids are terrifying. 

I find this comforting in a way - because try as I might I'll never be the Round Peg, nor do I want to be. It doesn't mean I haven't tried to round out my edges a bit, but all in all it's simply not a fit. Putting it like that is so much more matter-of-fact and definitely less painful for a guilty perfectionist such as myself. Perhaps in the end the square and the round can stand side by side with respect and mutual admiration, but since I can't count on that it's time for me to seek a Square/Trapezoid/Rhombus/Diamond-shaped niche for me to nestle within.

PotatODE

If Mr. Potato Head were real

I'd let him know his sex appeal 

He'd satisfy my appetite

I'd nibble his ear, then take a bite

Scalloped, Boiled, Soft or Mashed

Fried, Au Gratin, Tots or Smashed

Extra garlic, extra cheese

Extra bacon please please please!

Hashed, O'Brien'ed or Pancaked

Roasted, Chipped or Twicely Baked

Curlied, wedged or steak-tified

Potato is Heaven when it's French Fried

Such a canvas for delicious fare

Never existed like the Pomme de Terre

I'd write more but you'll have to wait

Mr. P and I have a big date.

The Bottom Line

While exiting a fantastic party this weekend, I took a nasty spill and slid down my friend's staircase (clumsy + tipsy usually spells disaster). I hardly felt it then, but man did I have bruises the next morning! Now, you all shouldn't feel too sorry for me, I bruise rather easily. But it does hurt to sit down and I imagine it will for quite some time.

Of course my classic fall got me thinking about the internal injuries to my pride and spirit as of late. I seem to have veered off my chosen path for a while, and so many stumbles have resulted in what sometimes feels like a hopeless spiral into an abyss from which I cannot return.

Wow!  That was super depressing what I just wrote! This is a fun blog! Ponies and rainbows! Kitty cats and cupcakes! That which does not kill you makes you stronger! Sometimes you have to take two steps back before you take one step forward! The harder to get, the better to have! Two roads diverged in yellow wood... ! 

What?!

Ok, enough cliches and Robert Frost, my ass really hurts. The bottom line is this: I have been falling a lot lately. Sometimes it's a wake-up call, and other times it really hurts. Either way, I am learning. I am learning to look at the bigger picture. Learning to love myself, learning to laugh at my imperfections, and learning that falling is inevitable. 

In discussing my shortcomings with a close friend of mine, I came to what I think is a comforting conclusion: perhaps it's not how many times one falls, perhaps it's all about the grace of the recovery. And the more and more we fall, the more we accept our shortcomings with a better sense of self. The hope is that between each fall the recovery time becomes less and less, because our coping skills become sharper after every incident.

I think I also have to be open to the fact that as I shed more and more of my protective padding (literally and figuratively - those who've known me for a while can tell you that my booty used to be much larger) I have to come to terms with just how exposed I am to the world. I suppose the risks make everything more worthwhile in the end. But one thing is for certain, I do learn from my mistakes. Next time I'm leaving Leah and Ben's apartment I'm either going to have had less to drink or someone to hold my hand.

Whole-Assing Prohibited

You gotta wonder where the term 'half-assed' came from. Before I explain what I found out in my research, let me first define this new phrase I've coined:

Whole-ass:  to bend over backwards to do something well; to put one's ass on the line; to try real real real hard. 

Folks, that's what I've spent my whole life doing! Whole-assing everything! And let me tell you, I'm exhausted!!!  In attempting to deal with my new promotion and prove to everyone (mostly myself) that I am capable and worthy, I've been busting my butt with very little pay-off. In bemoaning my frustrations to my dear friend who will remain anonymous... let's just call her Mrs. Waffles*, she encouraged me to accept good-enough instead of good in order to get by and save my sanity: translation - half-ass it all!

This concept was foreign to me, a perpetual over-achiever perfectionist type. Not do my best?! To not go above and beyond?!  To not have complete control over every single little thing?!!? THAT COULD LEAD TO TOTAL DISASTER!!! 

A change was absolutely necessary at this point.  I'd become so wrapped up in all of the things I needed to be doing that I was on my way to some very painful ulcers.  I tell you, day one of half-assing, and I already feel 100% better! It is incredibly enlightening to realize how skewed my expectations were before. There just aren't enough hours in the day to do everything I'd set out to do: half-assing ensures that I feel proud of shitty jobs, have more time to actually get tasks done now that spend less time worrying I'll mess up (if you're half-assing, it's ok to mess up!), and even have time for a latte every now and then. Why didn't I learn to half-ass years ago?!

And as Mrs. Waffles reassured me, my 'half-assing' was probably better than most people's whole-assing. So it's not as though I'm actually doing a poor job, (for those of you co-workers out there who might, by chance, be reading my blog) it's that I've given myself permission to do what it takes to just get things done. I'm forcing myself to not dwell on all the things I think I'm doing wrong. Scary for me, but completely liberating!

So you read this whole blog wondering where the term half-ass actually came from... I would tell you, but I think I'm just gonna go to bed.  Stay tuned for more newly minted phrases and more half-assed blogs.

*Actual names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Fallaphobia

As the blustery winds start to snake their way through the crispy red and yellowing trees, a chilly fear creeps into my sun-worshiping skin. It's here. Again. Just like every year. I should have expected it. And yet I'm still terrified.

Who doesn't love a good hay ride, or an afternoon spent apple picking? A bonfire complete with your significant other's sweatshirt wrapped around you? Halloween, pumpkin pie, raking leaves... on and on with the fall magic! It's all crap Silly diversions created to distract us and make us feel warm and fuzzy just long enough to forget that this is only the beginning of the cold - soon absolutely everything will die and we'll be forced to wear long underwear and leg warmers and wrap our faces in several scarves just so that we can walk three blocks to the train without suffering from frostbite. 

In researching the fear of fall, I discovered that there is no actual term for it. There is Ancraophobia, which is the fear of wind. And also Frigophobia, the fear of cold, but no fear of fall. I suppose I am the very first person to fear it. (Or admit that I fear it.) Every year I re-examine why exactly I live on the East Coast. What's really stopping me from moving to a warmer climate? I really am a warm-weather gal at heart, despite living in the midwest for most of my life. So why do I live somewhere where my favorite season barely lasts a quarter of the year? I spend more time and energy complaining that it's NOT summer than enjoying the current season. But just like everything, the grass is always greener (well, in this case it's dead and brown.) And perhaps suffering through the rain, sleet, and snow makes me appreciate the summer all the more.

So I'm going to try to be a good sport this year as we transition into fall and winter. I'll laugh it up on a stinkin hay ride. I'll play in some crunchy dead leaves. I'll eat a carmel apple and pretend I'm not annoyed that bits get stuck in my teeth. And most of all, I'll enjoy those 40 degree, rainy, slopping-through-wet-leaves-days, knowing full well that there are even shittier ones ahead.