Please disregard the previous post. I was just having one of those days, brought on by the fact that I now have to work in an office full-time again. But Paul, my fiance, interpreted this as my way of telling him that I was somehow unhappy with him and the fact that we're getting married. Of course, this could not be further from the truth. I'm not even sure HOW he got this out of the text, which (I thought) was career-specific self-indulgent whining. (Ironically, by bitching about my lack of success as a writer I utterly failed to convey my point. Maybe it's time to pursue that exciting career in the Heating & Air-Conditioning industry. )

So, my deepest apologies to Paul, who is the best fiance I've ever had. And one of only 3 people who even reads this blog, so maybe that's why he thought I was talking about him. He's kind of like my mother in that respect. Any time anything even remotely bad happens to me she concludes that it is entirely her fault ("If only I'd been a better mother, that airline would never have lost your luggage.")

But, doesn't anyone else EVER have moments where they feel like they haven't accomplished everything they'd imagined by this point? And don't you feel sorry for yourself for just a few minutes, every now and then? Especially at certain moments in the Lunar Calendar (as half the population will understand)? Oh, come on. Maybe I'm just the very last person on the entire planet who isn't on Prozac. I'm certainly the last in my extended family. And believe me, I'm not knocking it. And not just because it's a federal crime to suggest that anti-depressants are over-used in our society.

One of the problems with our culture is that we lack a vocabulary for the subtleties emotion. We live in an increasingly binary world. You're either a Republican or a Democrat (if you're anything else, you'd might as well be a donut, as Kurt Vonnegut recently observed); you're "happy" or you're "depressed." And "happiness" is the emotional state that is most difficult to talk about, in the way that a good person is the hardest kind to write about. You're supposed to be happy and cheerful all the goddam time, or else you'll have some sort of a prescription shoved down your throat, for the lack of words to discuss it.

America has no language for emotion, and that, in my view, is the single biggest cause of our collective depression. Our poetry is the poetry of the T.V. commerical. Storytelling is central to the human soul, and our stories are killing us. We're starving for narratives - for meaning - but all we have are junk-food stories. The artificially flavored kind. The stories we consume come primarily from T.V. and Hollywood movies, all of which have an intensely limited, famously formulaic range of emotions. I'm not knocking T.V. or movies - I'm a fan. It's just that all the stories stay on the surface of things and dance around the essence of things, which is lost - utterly. And so we're lost. We anaesthitize ourselves and buy more crap at Wal-Mart or Bergdorf's (if we're lucky) because we feel dissociated and seperate.

We get these ideas of how we're "supposed to be". How life is "supposed to be." But then you're never, EVER supposed to be unhappy without an obvious and compelling reason. I think part of the problem is that we don't recognize the spirit - the soul, if you want to get all 18th-century about it, and that the body is an energy system that is not just "connected to" conciousness, it is conciousness.

Now I'm even more depressed. Maybe I should try cutting out dairy?




- posted by Marguerite @ 9:20 AM

 
Do you ever get that “not-so-sane” feeling?

It seems like they aught to have some sort of douche for the brain. I’m pretty sure Pfizer makes one or two, at least. This past week, I came pretty darn close to having a nervous breakdown. I think my brain is defective or something. If only I’d remembered to save the receipt.

Making the transition to working full-time again has been slightly painful (I know … it’s heartbreaking). It’s actually a good job, and, as jobs go, fairly interesting, a good cause, yadda yadda yadda. Still, it’s hard to shake the feeling of being a failure in all the ways that matter. By which I mean, all the ways that don’t matter. It’s funny – you never hear people say, ohmigod, I’m a failure! Why haven’t I managed to align myself with the forces of authentic peace and love?! Or, Why don’t I have more compassion for my fellow human beings? What's wrong with me? Instead, it’s more like, ohmigod, I’m a failure! I haven’t published an article in a pedantic literary magazine that nobody even reads! And I don’t even own a pair of Jimmy Choos!

I like to think I’m a "late bloomer." That’s a nice way of putting it. But it’s hard to be a late bloomer in the Kingdom of the Wunderkind (a.k.a., the greater New York area). At a certain point, most people have to come face to face with the reality that, despite their best efforts, they’re probably going to have a thoroughly average life. Of course, there’s no such thing as average! the adventure of the ordinary! Blah blah blah. You realize that if your life were a movie … no, wait - it wouldn’t be a movie. Ever. Not even a European art-house movie where nothing ever happens, because that would require a little more self-conscious malaise than any American can muster. And it would require perfect boobs.

This concludes another episode of Marguerite's Problems Aren't That Big! Tune in next time, when I opine about the lack of spacious and affordable rental properties on the Upper West Side.

- posted by Marguerite @ 10:18 AM

 
I’m recovering from a nasty case of food poisoning. Without quotation marks. I suppose it’s karmic retribution for the times I’ve called in sick with, ah, “food poisoning.” Although usually this claim had at least some basis in fact (vodka is a food, right?).

Anyway, the moral of the story is: never order the Pasta Pescatore at an Italian restaurant in Greenpoint that’s probably just a front for the mafia. Eeeeeeggghhh.

- posted by Marguerite @ 9:56 AM

 
We spent the weekend in Maine. It was a really great trip, only far too short. They say New York is the best city to leave, and the best city to come back to. As soon as you get out of the city, you notice that “not so sane feeling” leaving your body, and an unfamiliar sensation (peace? sanity? ) settling in. But then, on your way back – when you see the city from a distance, and then dive down into it - it’s satisfying like taking a long, deep drag off a cigarette is to a smoker who hasn’t smoked in a week.

The day before I left, I got a new credit card in the mail, with a $10,000 limit. I can only assume there was some sort of snafu down at C. Bank, because one of the credit cards I never paid back was actually one of THEIRS. Maybe they heard that I was unemployed for the past 9 months, and that makes me a better credit risk? Regardless, I set out with great alacrity to buy tons of crap I can’t afford, and don’t even remotely need. God bless America.

There were plenty of opportunities to spend money heedlessly in Kennebunkport, where there are approximately 35 quaint gift shops for every man, woman and moose. It’s a good idea to have a shot of insulin on hand when you go into these stores, which all have names that are painfully cute double entendres - things like “The Mew England Cat Shoppe” (a gift shop that sells only cat-themed paperweights) or “Maine-ly Crustaceans!” which might specialize in plush lobster key rings. Or, you can go to Ye Olde Radio Shack and get a hand-held version of “Mortal Combat.” Just like the pilgrims used to play.

We were staying at a cute B&B called the Waldo Emerson Inn. Allegedly, it was built by the eponymous Waldo, uncle of Ralph. We got a comprehensive tour of the place when we came in, which I’m guessing was about 8% of what they said (“this house is not edible,” for instance) was based on actual facts. That’s where Ralph sat and wrote poetry; this is where he contemplated nature; there’s Ralph’s very first stereo system (an 8-track - wasn't everybody's?).


- posted by Marguerite @ 1:46 PM

 
I just tried Skittles gum. It looks just like a Skittle, and when you chew it, it starts to dissolve like one. But then, a few seconds later - through some chemical process I don't even want to know about - it re-solidifies and becomes gum.

That's why I like candy and chocolate from other countries. They're less likely to morph halfway through into something else entirely. Or be mistaken for a dog toy. While European candy, for instance, is more likely to be kumquat-flavored, at least it rarely glows in the dark. Call me a traditionalist, but I think food products should start out one thing and remain that thing until swallowed. I also think you should have to turn on a light to find them in the middle of the night.

"It starts out as a piece of gum, but then it turns into an action figure! Mmmm! "

Does anyone else remember Lik-M-Aid? It came with three packets of colored and flavored sugar (cherry, orange, and lime), and a sugar stick that you were supposed to lick, dip in the sugar concoction, and then lick some more, until you were rocking in a corner, grinding your teeth and talking 90 miles per hour. Like the candy cigarettes they used to have, this stuff was basically candy crystal meth (which was possibly one of the ingredients). I'm surprized it didn't come with a little mirror and a straw.

- posted by Marguerite @ 8:26 PM

 
I’m cat-sitting, which gets me to thinking about feudal Russia and Homeland Security.

See, my friend Saad (whose cat I’m sitting near, but not on) has about 5,000 channels of cable T.V. At home, I’m pretty much limited to PBS and the UPN network – a bitter choice between “too smart” and “too stupid.” I love PBS, theoretically anyway, but like most Americans I’m averse to the idea of “learning from” T.V. It just seems wrong. Like “learning from” your toaster oven.

Access to the Wonder T.V. reminds me why I should never, ever get cable – that sweet, electronic nectar of the gods. It really is hypnotic. I flipped on the T.V. earlier and got sucked into one of those political talk shows, in which a well-dressed, middle-aged, moderately (un)attractive yet ridiculously pompous white dude was talking to several other guys who fit roughly (okay, exactly) the same description. The topic was whether or not it’s a good idea to have a new “Information Czar” who’ll oversee the various branches of “intelligence” ( … nah, it’s too easy – I won’t bother).

The men in suits interrupted each other every two or three words for about an hour. The one thing nobody seemed to bring up is … CZAR? Hello?! Why not create the office of “Intelligence Fuhrer”? Or maybe the Kingpin of Homeland Security? Then maybe they can get a Fiefdom of Education, and crown Jeb Bush Grand Archduke of Florida (assuming he's not already ...).

The history of the czars is appropriately bleak. The term "czar” derived from “Ceasar,” another monarchy known for what might be described as "humanitarian issues." The lineage of Russian czars began in the 16th century with Ivan IV, who ruled with a deep-seated paranoia and ruthlessness, and left Moscow in a state of ruin. Ivan’s feeble-minded son, Fyodor, then inherited the crown and appointed Tom Ridgevonovetch as Feudal Baron of Homeland Security.

Fast forward to the 19th century, and Czar Alexander III had increased the repressive powers of the police and tightened censorship (sound a little “Patriot Act”?). The whole thing (the Czar thing, that is) finally ended with Nicholas III, a delusional and superstitious man who brought in Rasputin - the only person on earth crazier than he was - to run the country. Like most Russian stories, that of the Czar did not end well. Rather, it ended in bloodshed, mayhem and (ultimately) the rise of Stalin, arguably the most deadly dictator in recorded history.

But this czar of intelligence will finally suppress those rowdy feudal uprisings at the C.I.A., I’m all for it.

- posted by Marguerite @ 7:27 PM

 
It was an ominously beautiful day. Unseasonably cool, it was in the low 70s here in New York - sunny without being hot, crisp but not chilly - with big blimp-like clouds that seem to be a floating advertizement for infinite optimism. September 11th weather, in other words.

I spent much of the day in the park. Now that I'm more or less employed, it occures to me that I should have spent a lot more time in the park while I wasn't working. It's just so picturesque, it kind of hurts. All the lovers in rowboats and great expanse of green lawn in the middle of the city, framed by the old skyscrapers, blah blah blah. You feel such a need to take it all in, to process whatever it is about Central Park on a Sunday afternoon in the summer when the light is moving across the landscape, the way it does in the late afternoon ... Beautiful to the point of being annoying.

That's why I go to the gym. It's easier to process. You don't have to be distracted by the fact that you could never quite put it into words.

It hasn't reached 90 once all year in NYC, which is some sort of a record. I'm not complaining - for those of us without air conditioning, this is a good thing. Apparently, it's been unseasonably cool in Florida as well. Maybe a new ice age is coming? That would suck. Especially if it happens right after I finally buy an air conditioner.

- posted by Marguerite @ 9:12 PM

 
This time of year I always get a sense of how time is going by very quickly. Last night, I was cleaning out some ancient files on my computer, and came across something I wrote back in August 2000. I was also quasi-employed, as I'd just gotten back from Berlin, and clearly had WAY to much time on my hands. It was kind of like a blog entry, but I didn't have a blog (did blogs exist way back then?) I just wrote things and emailed them to my poor, unsuspecting friends (yes, that IS pathetic). I guess it was a proto-blog. Anyway, I thought I'd share (just be glad this isn't coming to your inbox, folks ...) NOTE: m-ploy.com ("Marguerite's ploy for getting jobs you're not qualified for") was apparently a web site I considered making. Yes, kids - too much time is a dangerous thing ...


How to Write an Effective Cover Letter

A cover letter is a future employer’s first introduction to who you are as an individual. As such, it is important to spare no expense in purchasing mass-produced cover letter writing software.

The technical geniuses behind M-ploy.com have been working around the clock to bring you an affordable and reliable software for generating cover letters, based on the premise behind “Mad Libs.” Simply fill in key nouns, verbs and acronyms, and we do the rest for you!!!
For instance: A position called “Desktop Coordinator” is currently listed on the web site of a major media powerhouse, recently merged with AOL and the Roman Catholic Church(.com) to become one of the biggest information conglomerates in the universe.

Now, I don’t know what a Desktop Coordinator is, but the thing is - I’m sure nobody else knows, either. What you have to do is build on your strengths, however weak they may be. What follows is the cover letter generated by M-ploysoft™ for this position:


Dear Sir or Madam,

I am very interested in the position of “Desktop Coordinator,” which was advertised in the New York Times. With more than 18 years of experience at utilizing desks, I feel uniquely qualified for this opening.

You are looking for someone dynamic and motivated, with a strong sense of coordination. In this vein, please consider the following:

· I am well-versed in the art of feng shui, which can be easily applied to desk tops. As we all
know, a pencil sharpener in the “Prosperity” bagua can lead to multi-million-dollar mistakes.
· Trilingual: I speak three languages. Four, if you count Klingon. Five, if you count German.
· N.Y. State licensed aromatherapist.
· Excellent written and verbal hygiene.

It is my belief that my professional background corresponds perfectly with duties involved in the desktop coordinating position which Your Company is seeking to fill. I am very motivated to find a challenging and dynamic opportunity which will allow me to make use of my well-developed linguistic, telepathic, technical, aromatheraputic and interpersonal skills.

I look forward to hearing from you, hopefully within the hour. I’ll take the liberty of sitting outside your office for the next few days if I don’t hear back from you. If I don’t hear back from you, I might kill myself, so please call soon.

With most sincere regards,
Marguerite E. Kennedy



- posted by Marguerite @ 8:32 AM

 
So, I was running late to work today, so I took a cab. When I got out, I realized I'd left my purse on the seat. I ran after the cab for several blocks, flailing my arms and shouting (it works in the movies ...). In my purse was my passport, my keys, and ALL THE MONEY I currently have in the world - about $42 bucks. And my ATM/debit card, but if anyone tries to use it, there's only $13.53 in the account, so the joke's pretty much on them.

I want to cry.

Some people believe that there is no such thing as an accident. Maybe I'm supposed to learn something cosmic from this, and make it into an touching, inspirational fable a la "Life of Pie". I can see the book jacket now: A handbag left in a taxi becomes a metaphor for the "handbag" left in the "taxicab" called ... life.

- posted by Marguerite @ 8:04 AM

 
I’ve decided to go to Canarsie. I just love the way the word sounds when native New Yorkers say it – “Cah-nawa-see.” It calls to mind a place where everyone is extremely matter-of-fact. People who refuse to pay too much for plumbing supplies, and who appreciate the aesthetic and practical aspects of aluminum siding.

Often, on the L-train to Brooklyn, speeding towards Canarsie, I consider not getting off in Williamsburg, but riding to the end of the line. In this daydream I live in Canarsie, and have a life that is delightfully free of poetic illusions. I raise small, yappy dogs and collect religious tschatchkies, and have finally abandoned the absurd habit of wearing makeup. When I go to a formal event, I wear my best pair of sneakers.

But when I get off the train, I leave behind the dream of the terriers and the hourly benediction from the neon Jesus-clock. But not without a distinct, inexplicable measure of sadness …

- posted by Marguerite @ 3:10 PM

 
To everyone who reads this (yes, both of you), I'm sorry I haven't updated in a while. I started a new consuting job this week, so I've been kind of busy. When I say I'm consulting, I don't mean "consulting," (ahem) which is what I've been doing for the past nine months.

I love the word consulting - with or without the quotation marks. It means absolutely nothing. Temping, essentially, is what it means. I'm working as a grant writer for a nonprofit in East Harlem. It's reasonably interesting, and is rewarding work, as they reward me with money in exchange for services.

One of the main reasons I enjoy the nonprofit field is that you never, ever have to wear panty hose. I hate panty hose. In a corporate environment, you usually can't escape having to buy one of those damned plastic eggs with a pair of hose in it. A plastic egg. Who thought that one up? As if it's not humiating enough that your legs are being digested by a pair of nylon boa constrictors the color of cat poop. They need to come in a plastic egg.



- posted by Marguerite @ 8:48 PM