the slack daily

I Look Good for 39.

I don't know what it is, but I can't stand living where we're living anymore. The lack of electrical outlets, the mold that grows back in the shower (which has two settings: super-fucking-hot and rendering-flesh-from-your-skin-hot), the wood counter tops which are softening with age, the formica counter tops that were installed last year that pool water in random places, the cabinets that are hanging on by a solitary hinge, threatening to tumble at any moment and take us with them....

But then I come back to the rent. The rent is cheap. And the place is big.

We can save for a house! I keep telling myself. But even though the market is prime for buying, we're still not in a position to do so.

I have always had an internal cut-off point. That cut-off point is 40.

I can't live there when I'm 40, I told Will the other night. We'll either have to be ready to buy or just bite the bullet and rent a nicer place that's fit for humans to live in.

I've been thinking the same thing, he told me. That means we have a little over a year.

A little over a year?

Because you're turning 39 this year.

I raised an eyebrow.

Wait! he realized. You're turning 38! We have an extra year!

No matter how much older you try to make me, you know you're probably dying first, I reminded him.

I should be so lucky.

 

Photo © Lisa Jane Persky

The Bastard Known as Not Me.

I was locked out of my Gmail account today. I thought it odd, but managed to unlock it within minutes. I had a slew of undeliverable messages sent back as spam, which means that either:

1) Someone forged my headers (annoying) or;
2) Someone hacked into my email (beyond annoying.)

Thankfully I can tell who's accessed my account by checking my access logs.

How do you do this? Just log into Gmail, then scroll down to the bottom.

Click on "details," which will bring up a list of IP addresses that have been used to access your Gmail account.

I would have definitely remembered if I was in Croatia this morning.

I did everything here and downloaded MacScan and changed all of my passwords to a) different passwords that are b) less hackable. Of course, now I've made them so intricate that I won't be able to log into anything else, ever. But neither will anyone else!

In the meantime, please be on the lookout for Not Me.

Artist's rendering of the crime.

Now go be a smartypants and change all of your passwords. And if you received an email from me inviting you to chat on a Russian Mail Order Bride site, I JUST WANT YOU TO BE LOVED IS THAT SO WRONG?

They Say It Comes In Threes, Right?

1.

2. Jury Duty.

3. ....?

Regarding the first item: After running disk utility, rebooting from the CD and restarting as a firewire drive and getting nowhere, I took it into the Genius Bar who declared the Hard Drive dead from mechanical failure. RIP, Mac Hard Drive. Thank for for having the courtesy to die while I was in the last six weeks of my AppleCare Warranty. Thankfully most of my proects have been saved with the wonders of emailing them to myself via Gmail.

Secrets and Lies.

Where the hell have I been? 

I have not been working on super-sekrit plans or on the lam from the mob or even traveling the world like my fauxbo neighbors.  I've been working.

Good, right?

Not really.

Last Tuesday night, in-between answering emails for one job and making phone calls for another and reminding myself that each extra second I was awake shaved another minute of sleep as I had to be up to work at the gym at 4:45am, I started to wonder when the last time I worked on a piece of writing.  Not a slack daily post, not a rumination on nerd-boy dating, not 140 characters in a row, but an actual piece of writing.  The outline for the book.  The rewrite on the script.  The new animated series.  Something that actually had to do with, y'know, the thing that I supposedly do, but hadn't done in...gulp.

But what was my choice, really?  I needed to stay on top of bills and we needed to do things like, y'know, eat.  I put this thought on repeat and let my brain do the rest of the work. Five minutes later I was in front of Will.

I need to quit one of my jobs, I told him.

So quit.

But then we can't pay bills.

But we'll figure it out, he promised me.

On the surface, all of the jobs are perfect part-time jobs - except the gym, although it's relatively easy and comes with the bonus of a free membership. I could cut down on my gym hours, work maybe once a week...

So do that.

I don't know, that's eighty dollars less a week.

And that's when it hit me.

I was being held hostage by eighty dollars a week.

Everyone has their own version of what failure feels like.  To me, it was to be held hostage by eighty dollars a week.  But the more i thought about it, the more I realized it wasn't that at all, but the idea that I half-assing it.  I had become the thing that I hate the most - the writer who doesn't write, the person with a goal who doesn't actually pursue it.

Will had said in our last chat that the one thing he wants is a quiet, anonymous, happy life.  I don't disagree, but I'd like that life to include things like creative endeavors, the ability to travel see our families more than once a year and a house, and actual house with a yard and electrical outlets and kitchen counters that aren't made of wood and no crazy packrat landlady and a parcel of fauxbos in the front yard.

So I'm using that eight dollars, that small parcel of financial breathing room to purchase myself some creative breathing room.  

What's the point of running the rat race if there's not a piece of cheese at the end?

Note:
Fauxbos = fake hobos, coined by BetheMarriage LIVE! viewer Ike.

I was looking for YouTube videos of hamsters running around in those ball things (or the American Gladiators in the Atlasphere) and came across this.  Enjoy!

Parallel Bloggers.

There's something weird about being married to another blogger, much less blogging about it.  It's a decidedly post-modern problem that will probably soon have a support group and an acronym.  In the meantime, I've noticed that when I hit my blogging stride, Will sometimes wavers and when he hits his (see today's post, fr'instance), I sit at the screen with nothing to say. 

So in the meantime:

• Yes, there will be another Live Chat Saturday night!  Mark your calendars!

• We got Guitar Hero and although my actual guitar experience and my freakishly small hands has probably held me back in some regard, at least I'm the #1 Rocker in the house.  In my defense, I asked him if he wanted to play and he said no. Pinky Swear!  Judy Nails and our band Cupcake (please tell me that's not the best name ever for an all-girl band?) are blazing through Medium.  I am sure that I shall receive my comeuppance forthwith.

• Semi-Finalists for My Nerd Crush have been announced! Vote!

• How uninspired have I been lately?  So much so that I watched Breakin 2': Electric Boogaloo in its entirety last night. To answer your question: yes, it holds up to the test of time.

• And in case you ever find yourself in a breakdance fight, I offer you this clip.  (From the original, classic Breakin'. To be used for training purposes only.)

For the Birds!

This morning, Will and I collapsed on the couch with the remnants of last night's dinner and a Wonderdog, watching Nature's Engineers 2 on the History Channel.  We learned about Trapdoor Spiders and Naked Mole Rats, but it was really the behavior of the Great Hornbill that I found the most intriguing. 

According the show, when building a nest, the Hornbill creates a cavity in the trunk of a tree with its impressive beak.  While the female waits at home, the male goes out, swallows mud, and regurgitates it b to the female.  She will then mud-vomit to seal the opening to the nest, proving that nature is eerily similar to a sitcom family where mom knows best and dad's just a buffoon mud-puker.

The female Hornbill leaves only a small slit in the opening to protect her brood from the outside world, while dad is charged with the responsibility of finding food and bringing it back to the nest.  Mom can stay inside for up to three to four months.

How does she not go crazy? I ask Will.

So you don't want me to go out and swallow mud?

I thought about it for a second. Y'know, with the kids it sounds like a hostage situation.  Without, it sounds like heaven.

...

Things have been teetering on the edge of crazy here a Slack World Headquarters.  Remember how I wrote the other day about losing my freelance job?  I managed to pick up another freelance gig with them.  But it's one where time is of the essence, and I'm essentially on-call.  My friend S. also hooked me up with her husband's company, making sales calls and helping them with their online marketing.

Nina's List of Jobs:

1. Gym, part-time at the front desk.
2. Bill Foundation, Volunteer Coordinator.
3. Unnamed Website, Customer Service Rep.
4. Phone Sales, medical software.
5. Online Marketing, medical software.
6. Printing scripts, mailing scripts, emailing people about upcoming pilots, pitches, etc.

Nina's List of Blogs:

1. The Slack Daily.
2. The Post-Apocalyptic Workout. (With accompanying workout)
3. New blog, to premiere soon, half Geeks' Guide to Girls  and half Social Networking Yenta.

What Nina should really be doing:

1. Writing.
2. Writing.
3. Writing.

I've wondered to myself if it would make more sense to just get a regular full-time job, and write on the side instead of trying to fit it into the various nooks and crannies that I now use to sleep.  Except that finding a full-time job is a full-time endeavor.  While there are things that I think I can apply my skill set to, there are plenty of people that don't believe that it translates.  I've dug myself into odd little hole of a whole bunch of odd jobs.  Which pretty much makes me like the majority of writers out there: figuring out a way to balance earning a living and making time to write.

Will said I reminded him of Hey, Mon:

So I'm here, I swear.  I'm trying to keep up with your blogs and your twitters and your email, but mostly? I'm just working.

Panic in the Streets of L.A...

I lost one of my freelance gigs yesterday.

I got the email when I was on my way to pick up three dachshund puppies at the vet in Mar Vista and drop them off at one of the Bill Foundation volunteer's homes.  I didn't have time to be upset, as there were three squirmy puppies in the backseat, yapping and wriggling and nibbling at my fingertips.  I'm not much for small dogs, but I dare you to not elicit the smallest "aw" under your breath when confronted with such cuteness.

Will (who's writing for LA MetBlogs now, check out his first post here!) reminded me last night that we'd be okay. We'll figure it out, we always do.

I wasn't let go due to the quality of my work, but because they had found someone in-house to do the same thing.  I've been able to continue this part-time circus act by keeping a bunch of plates spinning simultaneously.  I guess I was shocked when one of them fell with no warning.

I've spent the morning in job hunt overdrive, which is a combination of finding short-term freelance gigs and searching for full-time positions that I can attempt to translate my television writing experience and my torrid affair with social media (which is strictly amateur level) into a plausible pitch as to why I'm the right chick for the job. To be fair, I'm always on the lookout for a new gig.  It just rarely has this level of panic attached.

Writing cover letters and re-tailoring my resume for each possible opportunity hasn't proved difficult.  What has proved difficult, and sometimes bordering on embarrassing is when I get replies like why on earth are you applying for this job?  One day I will respond because I don't hate money, do you?

A couple of weeks ago, a crazy woman at the gym (honestly, she's wacko) asked me why I hadn't gone back to my writing job after the strike.  I reminded her that I didn't have a gig before the strike - that's why I was working at the gym.

Well, why not? she asked.  D'you have a drug problem or something?

Scaling the Hollywood ladder isn't always a linear process.  I've had agent problems (one refused to finish a spec pilot we had written because we made an abortion joke that offended him), a Darren-Lamb-esque manager who sends email forwards and can't get people on the phone (although he's made a ton of money for the ex-boyfriend I set him up with), and the people who hired me weren't working for a long time (now they do, but in features which means no writing staff.)   

And that's not even the Hollywood side of the equation, the part where you're told you can't write for boys because you've only written for girls because they're unaware of your credits or that you can't write adventure because you've only written action or you can't write for adults because you only written for kids or you can't write for prime-time because you've only written for cable.

Today also marks 11 months that Will and I have been married (which means you people who had "one year" are about to lose your bet!) and it hasn't always been easy, as marriage is wont to be (or not be), but there hasn't been a minute that I thought I wanted to be married to anyone else.  But I am hardwired with the responsibility gene, and I can't stop thinking about our future.  Forget buying a house, what about retirement? Pension?  What if we had to pay market value rent?  Can I fit a mini-wine fridge in the Mini?

Of course, there are still career-type irons in the fire, a book proposal out there, a spec to finish, plus the possibility of Two Actual Jobs, something I can't even think about right now because I don't dare let myself dream anymore.   A deep cleansing breath, and I'll just concentrate on making the rent.

Your Moment of Zen:

Liar.

I remember a conversation I participated in (maybe it was on Consumating?) where someone asked

what do you do when you can't stand yourself? 

When I chimed in with some suggestions, someone responded:

I have a hard time seeing you that way. It makes me think that everything you write is a lie. 

I remember being shocked, because I the one thing I strive for when I blog or interact with someone online is a sense of honesty.  I know there are times I could be funnier, I could be more dramatic, I could make myself look better, but for me, the one thing I adore about this medium more than anything else is that I want it in some way to be relatable.   I'm always pleased when someone tells me you are exactly like your blog.  It means that while I'm letting you look through the Viewfinder lens, that brief snapshot helps shows the bigger picture. 

I've been thinking about it a lot today, as I sit here in front of the computer knowing that I should be somewhere else right now, and if not there, I should be doing forty-three different things that do not include updating this blog.  I was at the gym today, running on the treadmill, trying to rewire my brain to get over this crushing sense of STUFF that looms over me.  As I wrote to my husband today

Every single moment of every single day I feel like I should be working on something, because there is always something I have to do.  If I'm not at work, I should be doing my Flixster stuff for extra money.  If I'm not working on Flixster stuff, I should be blogging at one of my two blogs. If I'm not blogging, I should be at the gym.  If I'm not at the gym, I should be picketing.  If I'm not picketing, I should be washing the floors, cleaning the bathroom, doing the laundry, paying bills, finishing thank you cards, working on the other two writing projects that have been completely ignored since the PAW came up, etc. I'm adding another job to the list (which I have to, because the fact is I can't cover my bills on what I make and I don't want to start piling on debt again.)  At the end of the day, I am always left feeling like a failure because I didn't even nearly get enough done.

I know that people do this - they're called parents - and that's precisely why I can't have kids.  I can deal with stress when it's localized - a script due in two days? No problem.  Gotta find a place to live by next week?  Sure.  Need to run a sick dog to the vet at 3am?  I'm out the door. 

While I'm eating better and working out more, my nails are ragged and my skin is dull and I need a proper haircut and color.   Thankfully, these are the sort of problems that will benefit by a band-aid in the form of a bottle of Vamp, a box of Feria and a pair of scissors.

I could drop something, let something go, but my thought is that the one thing that slips through my fingers, the one opportunity I let do by is the one thing that could make everything a little bit easier.  That's not a chance I'm willing to take.   

I'm being interviewed by a fabulous woman for the Adopt-a-Writer project, and one of the questions she asked was what would people be surprised by most as your life as a writer?  Currently the answer would be panic, exhaustion, and the frequency of nervous breakdowns.   (Don't worry K., this won't be my actual answer.  Well, it will, just a bit more eloquent.)

Of course, at the end of the day, this is all a choice.  My choice.

I have to remind myself of that on days like today.

That's no lie.

Ignore This One.

I'm feeling a need to get some things off of my (admittedly ample) chest.  I've been sitting here with this blank box open all day, trying to figure out how to put it into words.  Amusing, since that what I used to be paid to do.  Which is all part of the problem.

As you can probably guess, I didn't go picket this morning.  Yesterday ended up being an extra-long day, and after working at the gym from 5:30am to 12:30pm, coming home, blogging, working on my freelance gig, and then going back to the gym for the evening shift, I was pretty much done.  I woke up with all intentions of heading out to strap on my picket sign and  protesting the man but the minute I stepped outside I felt like all of the air had been sucked out out the atmosphere.  I led Daisy around the block, went back inside to sit down and realized that I wasn't feeling any better.  I wasn't sick.  Physically, anyway.

I spent the new-found free time like I spend all of my new-found free time these days; not writing, but job searching.  Ten emails with resumes-attached later, I opened up the search to include not only online/new media/community manager/copywriter/editor/creative services/PR/producer/reality tape logger positions (I apply for everything that I can remotely mold my qualifications to fit, the magic of the cover letter...) but to seasonal jobs.  It appears I'm going to have to hit the pavement to fold your jeans at the GAP or to shelve books at the Barnes & Noble.  Which is fine, it really is, although I do draw the line at sending in a resume to be a gift wrapper.  I don't see how my GPA is relevant to my ability to tie a bow.

I started calling myself a writer when I started making a living doing it.  It was the best time in my life and every day I woke up and reminded myself that I was lucky to be there.  As things started to slow, I reminded myself that I was still making a living doing what I wanted to do.  As things completely dried up, I tried to believe that I was okay with the idea that for just a moment, I had gotten to do something that so many people desperately want to do and never get the chance to.

But that's not true, I'm not okay with it, and that's been the toughest part to swallow.  I know that everyone's got their own issues, but I would be lying if I didn't say that things are extraordinarily tough right now.  I'm trying to simultaneously apply for jobs that could maybe turn into a career (zero responses), jobs that I can use to help me cover my bills (zero responses, at least I'm consistent), study for the LSAT, try to figure out if perhaps there's another avenue rather than law school that it would be more prudent to take or I might be more interested in (J-School?), dealing with the weird miscarriage feelings, stuff with Will, the fact that I haven't worked out in ages, working at the two jobs I am getting paid for, and oh yeah, write.

I'm fucking exhausted.   So anyone out there that thinks they want to work in TVland, I'm telling you right now: find something else to do.  I used to be cute, smart, and witty, and all I am these days is old, broken, and bitter.  I am about to lose it in a Very Big Way. 

Now if you'll excuse me, I gotta see if I can retailor my resume to the Gift Wrapping Sciences.

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow, Revisited.

I told the stylist at Floyd's that I wanted a slightly-longer than chin-length bob.

Louise Brooks style? she asked.

You mean angled?

Yup.

Sure.

She showed me exactly how much she planned on cutting off and I nodded.  Then I took off my glasses, she turned the chair around so I couldn't see my reflection and started cutting.

Not chin length.

Oddly - or not oddly - enough this is where Will got his buzz cut a few months back. Perhaps there's some supernatural force about the place, a sort of short-hair vortex?

I know it'll look fine in a few weeks.  And technically, it's a great haircut.  Just not on me.  I look like a chubby  pinheaded girl.  My thought is always that "it's just hair" but I really, really hate this.  And I get to meet Will's entire family tomorrow as well as a bunch of Internet friends on Monday feeling this way.

Maybe makeup and a cocktail would help?

And a shout-out to Giu, who noted the following resemblance:

New Rules for Haircuts:

 

1. Wear glasses
2. Measure twice, cut once.
3. Louise, I love you but I will never invoke your name around a pair of scissors again.