No News = Good News? Not Exactly

In early June, maybe even late May, I applied for a new job. One where the hours will be more manageable and one where my commute will drop from 90 minutes in each direction to a mere 15 minutes in each direction. Meaning, even if the hours aren't any better at the new place, I'd still get back more than 2 hours a day that I currently lose sitting on a fucking train.

So -- June/May whatever....I send in my resume. A couple weeks later, I get invited to an interview. It takes a couple more weeks to set that up but it eventually happens and it goes GREAT! They fucking LOVE me. So much so that they ask me on the spot to come in for a second interview.

The second interview, thanks to my shitty fucking work schedule, took over a month to set up but it too seemed to go really well. Left there on a high -- absolutely sure the job was mine. They told me a decision would be made soon, within a matter of days. And then...NOTHING. Not a word. Radio fucking silence.

I couldn't take it. Here I was, spending each day thinking, Is today the day I give my notice? Can I book that weekend for early October? I started thinking about what it would be like to have free time again. But after a week of nothing, I started to go a little nuts and so I make a call and I'm told "Oh yeah, so great to hear from you, we're gonna decide early next week, yada yada bullshit."

That was 10 days ago. TEN. MOTHERFUCKING. DAYS. And on each of those days the job seems less and less likely. And the plans for fall have to be canceled. And the misery that is my job starts to set back in. Sure, they haven't said no. But they haven't said yes either.

Everyone says no news is good news. But that's not particularly comforting when you're facing 18 hour days in the interim. Who cares if no news is good news if you go crazy before you can get the good news, right?

Whoever said money doesn't buy happiness was probably already rich

In less than 24 hours, I'm off to London once again. And the beauty of this trip? My return date is OPEN. Yes, open, as in, we haven't decided yet when you'll be allowed to come home, now back to work you fucking grunt. Ok, that's not totally true -- I know I won't be there past August 7, but still. How they expect people to live like this is beyond me.

I for one have had enough. But unless I want to go from one horror show (a.k.a. big slave-driving law firm) to another, there ain't much out there these days. At least, there ain't much out there that pays enough for me to make my mortgage payment each month without having to take a second job just to get by. Which pretty much would defeat the purpose of leaving the shitty job I have now.

If only I had some money. . . I don't need much -- maybe just a few hundred grand or so (yes, that sounds like a lot, but in the scheme of things, its really nothing) -- ya know. . . enough to pay off the dreaded second mortgage, quit my life-sucking job and start my own business. The DH and I actually have an AMAZING business idea -- we've got the concept, the name, the approximate location (eastern shore of VA, baby!) and the know how. All we need now is the cash.

We'd sell our house but thanks to greedy fucking banker assholes who crashed the real estate market while lining their own already overstuffed wallets, its worth less than we owe on it. I don't have any rich relatives or know any venture capitalists and without some cash of our own, no bank will even consider giving us a loan no matter how fantastic of an idea we might have. And I don't care what anyone says, with few exceptions, the whole "American dream" of creating wealth from nothing doesn't mean shit anymore. The system is set up to keep the rich rich and everyone else just getting by.

And then we're fed a whole line of bullshit to keep us from rising up against this fucking nonsense....Unhappy with the status quo? It couldn't possibly be because you're broke or don't have the freedom to do what you want. Oh no -- because if you just did what you love, the money would follow, say some (of course, they don't tell you how you're supposed to eat and keep a roof over your head while waiting for the money to flow). Money doesn't buy happiness, say the others (as they drive around in their luxury SUVs wearing $1500 sunglasses on the way to their $20 million dollar homes). Maybe my little business idea would fail; maybe I'd hate it. But without the start up money, I'll never be able to even try.

So please, spare me the money doesn't buy happiness line of shit. The only people who really believe that are people who don't need money. Because I'll tell you fucking what -- if I suddenly had a million dollars, I'd be the happiest bitch on the fucking planet, I promise you that.

Flirting with Disaster

Have you ever found yourself in a place where you totally didn't want to be and yet you weren't really sure how to get somewhere else and so there you were, lost, basically, hoping someone would come along and push you in the right direction? That is my life right about now. Lost. And in need of a push.

If you've been to visit here in the last few months, you have surely noticed that the law has lost its glamour for me and that I am floundering in a place of uncertainty, trying to figure out what the hell to do with the rest of my life. I've a ton of ideas, but one which I keep coming back to involves dance. And one way to make a living with dance is to teach it. Sure I could open a studio, but that scares the shit out of me (and requires a ton of money upfront anyway). So I thought, hmm, what about teaching in public school? I could be happy as a dance teacher. Because not only do I love dance, I'm stone cold jealous of teachers with their regular schedules and their summers off. Straight up, no bullshit, hard core jealous. And yeah, teachers make shit money, but not a little as you might think, considering they are home by 4pm and have summers off. Especially not here in NJ. Sure $50Gs a year won't make you rich but you ain't starvin' neither. So, I figured I get licensed, I line up a job, bang, I'm outta here.

Which led to me spending the better part of today researching what it would take to become licensed to teach in NJ. As turns out, if I want to teach Social Studies -- very little, thanks to my fancy-schmancy anthro degree, but if I want to teach anything else -- like dance -- I'd have to take a bunch of college classes...upwards of 30 credits worth. So I thought, hey, no biggie, I can take some classes. I like dance classes. I can make it work. I'll give up a yoga night. Or come in late a couple mornings ort whatever. And then I thought, oh fuck, the best I can do while still working is one class a semester -- and if I need 10 classes, that's 5 freaking years. And I thought, oh hell no. And so I stopped looking because I can't stay here, lost, for five years.

And then, last-minute-Charlie (one of my many bosses) sent me an email telling me he needed xyz done by Monday morning. Luckily, its the weekend of my high school reunion so I had an excuse to get off the hook, this weekend, but I know he will fuck up my next weekend and the one after that and the one after that. Cause god forbid he should consider that maybe, just maybe, I might have a fucking life worth living. Or, god forbid, he should assign the fucking work when he finds out about it instead of waiting until the last fucking minute. the mother fucker. Last time I had to work with this guy, I didn't have a day off for 33 days, and that was just last month. I wanted to tell him to go fuck himself, but that probably wouldn't be good for me so I said sure, I can work my face off all next week and for the rest of my natural born life until I have another acceptable excuse to run away. So you see, I definitely do not have 5 years to give.

And then, just a moment ago, I read about even more layoffs in the legal world (30 senior associates, like myself, let go from one of the nation's most prestigious law firms). And I thought, god I wish they'd lay me off.

Yes, I actually wished to be laid off.

Because as financially devastating as that would be, I know it would also be completely liberating. It would, for sure, be the push I seem to need to get the fuck out of this indecisive place.

Yes, hoping to get laid off seems counter intuitive and a bit nuts, but what are my other options really? Sure, I could go to some other shitty law job but what's the point? I'd take another job and a salary cut to go along with it and end up just as miserable but without the advantage of being able to escape to the islands a couple times a year. So, maybe like pulling off a band aid, a swift kick in the pants right out the damn door is what I need. And without a job, I could get my 30 credits in one single year. Granted, unemployment would barely cover my mortgage, but I'd get at least a few months of severance first, and I do have a little bit of savings, so I'd be OK for a bit. Scared as hell, I'm sure, but not starving.

So yeah, I'm flirting with what would likely be a total disaster, for a little while at least, but really, what's the point of money if you are too damn depressed to spend it? Or worse, if you aren't even allowed out of the office long enough to spend it? And what's the point of life if you don't get to live it? So please, bring on the layoff.

PS - my prayers will not likely be answered. Unfortunately my firm is financially sound (unless they're totally lying to us). Best I could do would be to get "asked to resign" - but you don't get severance for that. Ergo, still damn stuck.

Dancing to the Music in Your head

Most people hear music in their heads. A song comes on, they can feel it, so to speak. They remember the tune; they know all the words; maybe even they see the video in their mind's eye. And of course, everyone is familiar with that desperate moment when you get some god-awful song stuck in your brain You know the one -- that song that you wouldn't admit listening to is suddenly repeating itself over and over and over and over and over and, well, you get my point.

Or maybe not.

My point , you see, [oh, and on a total tangent, I just watched the most obnoxiously smug commercial -- 'don't be so vanilla' some 7 year old quips; why the fuck does a 7 year old know what the hell that even means?]...oh, right, my point...

My point is that while some people hear music in their heads, I don't. Well, I mean, I do. But I don't just hear the music. I also SEE dancing. Or rather, its like I FEEL dancing. I choreograph. In my head. To everything. Almost all the time. And what is really crazy is that I can almost feel the movement coursing through my body. Even though I'm usually on a train or subway or some other public place where it would not be exactly appropriate to break out into dance. Maybe it's some weird psycho thing I've created in my mind, but I think breaking into song would be looked upon less strangely than breaking out into dance. Not to mention that you can sing no matter what you're wearing. Try dancing in a suit with 3 and a half inch heels, and things could get ugly.

But yeah, I dance in my head. ALL. THE. TIME. On the subway. In line at the grocery store. At my desk. Ev. ry. where. Always. If there's music on, you can bet I've got a number going on in my mind. Hell, the other night, at the post-last call cocktail at my place, I started actually randomly dancing. And not like oh I'm at a party, dancing. Lyrical dancing. Mia Michaels type shit. My friends, and the DH, all thought I was totally nuts. But regardless, the dancing never stops.

And I think I know why. Up until the last, say, 5 years, give or take a couple of year, I was a rabid club goer. I wasn't there for the X, or the potential hook-ups like some folks I know, I was there to dance. In fact, for as long as I can remember, I've always tried to get my friends to go out dancing with me. And it has always been depressing how few of them would ever actually go. Oh, they'd show up at the club but then just stand at the bar and refuse to dance, leaving me to dance alone (hello, if I wanted to go dance by myself at some random club I wouldn't have asked you to go with me) or not at all. A few years back, the few who said yes was depressing, but now no one EVER wants to go dancing. No one. Never. And it fucking sucks.

Plus, thanks to the new job and the crazy fucked up hours associated with it, I've not been able to take this dance class I used to take every Monday night.

And then, there's this little part of me that thinks maybe it's more than just missed classes and a club-free existence. Maybe I see dance in my head where others hear music because, simply, I feel most alive when I'm dancing. Maybe, just maybe, like George Balanchine once said, I HAVE to dance. I know that sounds, like, wow, coming from someone pushing 40 who is not a professional dancer and I realize its probably too late for me to become some star dancer, but maybe I could still become some hotshot choreographer. Or even just a great dance teacher. Maybe.

Of course any of these choices, or paths, would require leaving my job and taking some ginormous risks. Which I believe I made quite clear in my last post, I am nowhere near ready to take. But, perhaps the winds of change will sweep in faster than I can see. For they are definitely starting to blow.

For now, however, me and my Dior bag will have to keep dancing inside and maybe make some new friends to go clubbing with until I can figure the rest out.

Happiness is a Dior habdbag

Two months ago I was forced to transfer from my laid back easy going NJ-based office to the workaholic land of my firm's NYC office. Well maybe not technically forced -- I did have a choice: transfer to NYC or get laid off. So, not technically forced but practically.

Anyway, since the transfer, my life has been an unpredictable mess -- some days I've wanted to pull my own hair out as a result of overpowering boredom. Other days I've wanted to cry from the sheer exhaustion caused by 16 hour days. And then there are the days that I get to revel in the glow cast by my uber-famous (at least in the legal world) champion of liberal causes boss. On those days, the exhaustion recedes and the light shines, if only for a brief moment.

Not that it's all that bad or anything. I've actually been quite lucky. I'm ridiculously well paid. The people I work with are pretty damn decent and the people I work for don't suck. So I've got it better than most (professionally speaking at least). But, having had to give up my last two weekends (or at least part of them) and expecting to give up part of the upcoming weekend, at the whim of some amorphous 'client,' not to mention not expecting to see the light of day for a couple of weeks, has gotten me thinking that perhaps its time for a change and I don't mean a 'ooh I'll go to another firm' change; I mean a maybe its time to get the hell out of the law game altogether kind of change.

The lightening quick passage of time isn't helping. Just yesterday I was a bright-eyed eager law student, ignorant of the realities incumbent upon my law school attendance and later legal career. Blink your eyes and BAM! I'm pushing 40 and wondering if maybe I made the wrong decision all those years ago. So, yeah, it may be time to make some hard choices. And the prospect is scary as hell. Mostly because, quite honestly, I've grown accustomed to my standard of living.

I know money isn't everything, and in the "big picture" means very little, but there's something to be said for financial stability -- I spent the better part of my life without it so I know what I'm talking about. Fuck. Everyone knows struggling sucks. Its comforting not having to worry how the mortgage will get paid. It's nice being able to go on vacation every year. Money may not buy happiness but it'll buy you a fucking hot ass Dior bag to make you forget your troubles.

So... Change. Choices. Easier said than done. For now, me and my Dior bag will be staying put.

Novelista in the Making

So my colleague and I, both relatively fed up with the legal world and major devourers of the written word, have decided to write a book. A chick lit novel to be precise (we're both VERY familiar with the genre so it just makes sense, that and we are chicks). Which we will write under a pseudonym (we've another colleague who is a bit of a celebrity in the non-fiction world and we'd rather not have to deal with what she has to deal with).

We figure we'll spend one lunch a week work on it together and then work on it individually whenever when we can. It will probably take a while, at least a year or two we're guessing, and will eventually cut into our already meager social lives, but we figure the potential life of leisure at the end of the road (you know, after the book is published and sells a bazillion copies) is worth the lost social time (and sleep). Basically, we've got nothing to lose and we figure if we can make this happen then maybe, just maybe, we can leave law firm life behind. For good. Which would be just too cool.

We've played around with this idea now for a bit but yesterday, we cemented it and even did a little brainstorming. We've got some great ideas already and I'm pretty excited about it. You'll meet the heroine here, I'm thinking. We may even give her a facebook page. :) Granted, I don't know a damn thing about writing a novel, but I figure if this guy can write a novel on the fucking subway, on his fucking PDA, then we should be just fine.

And if I wasn't convinced enough . . . I just was given a lovely assignment which is going to basically ruin my entire weekend. Again. What the fuck is it about this place that ends up with me having nothing to do for three days and then getting slammed with work on a fucking Friday. Oh - and get this -- if i had fucking KIDS, guess what? That's right,mommies are excused from working this weekend. Don't get me wrong - good for them, I love moms, especially my own, but I want to know if there will ever be a I'm not a mom but I'm still fucking worthy of respect Day. But that's a rant best left for another day. For now, I've got to get to work and start thinking about what I'll be ordering in for dinner since I won't be meeting my friends for cocktails and appetizers this evening after all. God this sucks.

I just hope (please oh please oh please) this new venture pans out, 'cause I don't know what else I'll do when I eventually get so tired of the law game that I'd rather lose my house than come to work another day. I see that day on the horizon, for real, and I can only hope that I find an alternative before it gets here. So wish me luck, m'kay?

Island Girl?

I've been listening to ALOT of (hot ass) Kenny Chesney lately. I mean alot alot. Like crazy alot. Like every album of his I own (4). At least a couple of times over alot. Like, I'm actually listening to it while writing this post alot.

No idea why...why, while commuting one morning last week, of the god knows how many artists on my iPod I landed on KC and just let it play through all his albums. And then did it again. (and again...). But that's how it started and it's been like an addiction ever since. Perhaps it was fate, or some sort of sign from the goddess or some message from the universe. I don't know.

But since that fateful morning, I've thought endlessly about moving to the islands. Or maybe the Florida keys (since you can drive there and all). Basically about moving to some place where there is a lot of sun. A lot of sand. And a laid back vibe. A no-shirt-no-shoes-no-problem kinda vibe, as Kenny might put it. Now mind you, this isn't some, oh, hippy dippy fantasy land idea of moving, a I-won't-have-to-work and I'll-just-get-to-play-all-day-on-the-beach kind of idea. One of those lottery winning dream kinda ideas. Oh no. This is way more reality based than that. Fuck. I've gone so far as looking into what it takes to join the bar of the U.S.V.I. (I'm already familiar with the Florida bar terms -- score two for the keys: no test req'd). Because what the fuck else am I gonna do, right? (which is a whole other thing I've been thinking about alot lately, but I'll leave that for another day).

Maybe it's because it's been raining for like. fucking. ever. And so now I have a vitamin D deficiency that is causing my brain to seek out the sun or some shit. Or maybe it's regret poking its ugly little head out to fuck with me (ages and ages ago I was had an opportunity to live on St. John but stupid me chose to finish college instead -- what the fuck was I thinking?). Or maybe it's just a touch of ennui. Regardless, all this Kenny Chesney listening, with all his Island Boys and girls from Boston, has left me feeling, well, not quite 100% comfortable in my own life (no, its not the swine flu). And thinking that I'd be more comfortable in a place where I didn't have to wear a jacket. Or shoes. And where I didn't need to use fake tanner because I'd have that I-live-somewhere-sunny look about me.

At first I thought, I must just need a vacation. And then I remembered, fuck, I just got home from vacation like 6 or 7 weeks ago. A sweet ass vacation too -- 7 days cruising around the Bahamas (to the left is just one of the keys we visited). And I haven't worked particularly hard since then (except for the last few days or so, before that it was snooze city). So I'm pretty sure that's not it. But I don't know why else this new fascination with island living.

So here I sit - an inescapable and sort of fuzzy idea of a totally different life floating around in my head. And I have no idea what to do about it. It's not like I could ACTUALLY move anytime soon. My house is worth shit just for starters -- I couldn't even move down the street. That and the whole, what the fuck am I going to do for a living question I was talking about before. Gotta answer that first, I think. Or maybe the two have to be decided together? I guess I could take another vacation, but I don't think that's gonna do it. At least not for the long run. I think, maybe, seriously, that I may be on to something. A (very?) long term something, perhaps. But still something. Something real. I can see it. Sort of. Or maybe I've just completely lost my mind.

In the meantime, anyone know any good realtors in the keys?

Oh, and by the way -- will someone please talk to someone about this fucking rain. I CAN. NOT. TAKE. another fucking day of it. Please. Rain is only sexy in the fucking islands.

(hat tip to D-bud for the Vitamin D reference)