While I was living in D.C., I got myself an amazing personal trainer. (If you live in Arlington, VA, check out Fitness First. The club is actually really nice, save for the as-advertised-on-Craigslist gay hookup steam room in the men’s locker room…or so I was told. Hey, it’s D.C.; you can’t throw a rock there without hitting a steam room-loving homosexual.) Anyway, Joe, my trainer, was quiet, but ass-kicking. In fact, he kicked my ass so hard that I gained, like, a shit-ton of muscle.

(Uh, actually, let me be more honest. I did gain a shit-ton of muscle. I also gained somewhat of a problem with guzzling a gallon of Chardonnay topped off with deliciously gelatinous pad thai every night.)

I didn’t really realize what a problem my she-hulk yet slightly flabby body had become until we moved to Seoul and I had to go through boxes and boxes of clothes I’d stored for 15 months while we were in D.C. Yeah, that was traumatizing. My only comfort was that my already voluptuous boobs had grown in voluptuousness thus drawing attention away from the fact that my ass is now an honorary Kardashian and my thighs can crush your skull. Needless to say, I gave away many, many clothes, and am probably still holding on to too many “if only I lose ten pounds” clothes.

But, dammit, I don’t want to get rid of all those hopeful pants and dresses. So, I need to lose ten pounds, preferably 15. Unfortunately, I find counting calories vile. And, honestly, I don’t have the patience to track that. Also, according to the research I’ve been doing on “normal” dieting, I’d probably have to lower my calorie intake to about 1,400 a day. That ain’t gonna cut it as I’m still running about six miles a day and I’m ravenous.

Now, I’m looking at doing a version of the paleolithic diet. When I was training with Joe, we did CrossFit-style sessions, and the paleo diet is favored among CrossFit fanatics. (And, have you seen some of the women of CrossFit? I’ll wait while you look. Back? Yeah, they’re sick, right?) That said, the paleo diet clearly has benefits. And it doesn’t require counting calories. But it does require cutting out all grains, legumes, dairy and sugar.

I don’t know if I really believe the science behind cutting out whole food groups from a diet . (Although I do know that there are a lot of food myths perpetrated by the U.S. Department of Agriculture. Really, why did the U.S.D.A. create the food pyramid? I’m sure it’s of no coincidence that the building block of the food pyramid–grains–just happens to be the most widely produced crop in the U.S.)

I guess I’m just looking for some feedback from people who have done the diet before. I’m concerned that I will have zero energy and my usual cherub-like demeanor will change into that of a fire-breathing beast of hell who needs a fucking cookie or she’ll punch your testicles off.

Huh, and just like that, I’m back. It’s been two years. I can’t believe it.

Did you know that I once held jobs that required me to write on a daily basis? Like, for work? That I got paid to do? It seems so long ago.

This is disjointed, I know. I haven’t written. Don’t expect seamless transitions. Or topics. Or even complete sentences.

But, for anyone who knows me personally, you know where I’ve been and what I’ve done since my last post. Here’s a numbered rundown for anyone who has stumbled upon this and is still reading:

1. I wrote about my last new job in this blog. That job may not have been an endless parade of coke and hookers like I made it sound, but it was challenging and, goddammit, it was fun. To say that my heart aches everyday because of the loss of that job in an understatement. I grieve for it still. And I doubly grieve for it because I walked away from it; I walked away from it unwillingly, but I still walked away. I wanted to keep in contact with all those people, but I didn’t. I can’t; it’s too hard. Poor me, I know.

2. I wanted to keep my fledgling marriage intact. The first year of my marriage, my husband and I spent eight months apart. I didn’t know if we could survive another separation. He got a new two-part assignment in February 2009 (Washington D.C. to Seoul). I had a choice to make. I could either stay in Wyoming for 15 months by myself while he moved to D.C., and then accompany him to Seoul for three years. Or, I could go with him for the whole shebang. I went for the shebang. (Why? Well, due to a strict schedule and only seven days of vacation time in 15 months, he couldn’t leave D.C., um, ever. And, unfortunately, I didn’t have weeks to take off to fly back and forth across the country either. I guess there were other, more complicated reasons, but we’re nothing if not practical.)

3. We had two weeks’ notice wherein we uprooted our whole lives and moved to D.C. (Seriously, we rented our house, put all of our things in storage, found a place to live in Virginia, sight unseen, etc.)

4. In D.C., he started Korean classes. I sat in. This began the most agonizingly painful and stressful period of our lives. Doing a job that my husband didn’t want to do, and was not even required to do, simply because someone in his agency made a mistake and had to cover his or her respective ass is beyond comprehension. Learning Korean was a miserable and unnecessary part of my husband’s assignment. It was soul-crushing to see him struggle through 15 months of language training. (In writing this down, his depression and anxiety over this struggle seem two-dimensional. They weren’t. Those feelings were pervasive in our home. Palpable.)

I dropped it after eight months. He had no choice. Whatever, we learned Korean. He, uh, learned it better.

I couldn’t in good conscience get a big girl job after I quit. (I was, after all, definitely leaving the country within a few months.) Instead, I worked at a dog wash. Huh, it’s actually a lot more humiliating to write that down for the public to read than it was for me to walk into that shop everyday in my nastiest clothes and squeeze Newfoundlands’ anal glands. Who knew? I guess I still have a modicum of pride in the fact that I graduated from a shitty state college with an English degree and I used to have a job that required me to use my brain (oh, and possess good general hygiene).

5. We moved to Seoul. But first, we had to give our dogs to my father-in-law. It was devastating. It is of little matter to me that those dogs live the most perfect existence of any dog at his home in rural Vermont. They are not with me, and I am selfish. For people without dogs, this will sound psycho and crazy-fur-baby-parent-y, but I feel like I have a phantom limb. My hands still feel their silky ears, but they are not here.

What is here? Well, nothing is here. My husband is here, I suppose. (If you count working 12 hour days “here.”) I am here whether I like it or not. And I don’t. I tried to put on my brave face, and tell people, “Oh, yes, I look forward to exploring Seoul. It will be such a wonderful, mind-expanding cultural opportunity.” Fuck that. It’s a charmless, superficial concrete megalopolis full of completely self-satisfied yet curiously Western-obsessed assholes. Really. My favorite description is from a Lonely Planet user-generated article titled “Cities You Hate” (of which Seoul ranked third). “It’s an appallingly repetitive sprawl of freeways and Soviet-style concrete apartment buildings, horribly polluted, with no heart or spirit to it. So oppressively bland that the populace is driven to alcoholism.” And it’s true.

We live in the upper East Side Manhattan of Seoul. We live in a million dollar apartment. We have floor-to-ceiling windows looking out onto, well, a pile of shit. What’s that famous idiom? Oh, right. You can’t polish a turd

6. I had to find something to do, so I read the internet. I’d forgotten how many good blogs are out there. I remembered that I also had a blog (albeit a crap blog with an undedicated and untalented captain at its helm). I don’t even want to say that I was inspired by all of the blogs I’ve been reading because, clearly, this is not so much an inspired post as it is a feel-sorry-for-me-and-the-burden-of-my-privilege post.

I lost momentum with all this complaining. Look forward to my next post.

Note: I actually just want to get this first-post-in-two-years published because the anxiety surrounding writing again is as oppressive as I remembered it to be.

In an amazing twist of fate, my husband started a blog! I didn’t know he had it in him, that sexy beast (www.mysimplelife79.wordpress.com). And, yes, that is his huge face in the header. (On a side note, I took that picture of him except I missed him the first time and told him to go back outside and “act surprised” when he came back in. He didn’t disappoint.)

I just saw the movie “Teeth” last night. And I am not the same today. And not in a good way. The movie couldn’t decide what it wanted to be. Was it a satire? A dark comedy? A horror film? A feminist statement? All I know is that today I am still disturbed. Maybe that was its intention. I will say, though, that the acting was phenomenal. Jess Weixler is like a dewy, young Meryl Streep.

Currently, my husband and I are compiling lists of the 100 things we want, no need, to accomplish before we die. I am only about a third of the way done with my list; not because there aren’t far more than 100 things I want to do before I die-there are-but because I suck at remembering all the things I want to do when I actually get to writing them down. The other day  I remembered that I wanted to learn to ride a horse, so I went to my list to document it only to find that I’d already written it down…twice.

Apparently I really want to learn how to ride a horse.

My list is fairly simple and, quite frankly, not that personal. There are some “big ticket” ideas on there, but most of the things I want to do involve merely signing up for a class or doing some research. I’ve also noticed a pattern of listing very “country-fied” ideas. There’s a farmer in me just dying to get out.

So, without further ado; here is my incomplete list.

1.       Own a bed and breakfast

2.       Operate a goat farm

3.       Learn to herd sheep with my dogs

4.       Start an animal rescue

5.       Live in a foreign country where they don’t speak English for one year

6.       Assist in the birthing of an animal

7.       Stay in a tree hotel in New Zealand

8.       Christen a boat

9.       Champion for mental health issues

10.   Zip line over a canopy in the rain forest

11.   Rent a private island in the Maldives

12.   Renew my vows with my husband yearly (formerly or informally)

13.   Go apple-picking in the fall and make a homemade pie (that’s edible)

14.   Build a fence around acreage that I own

15.   Tour the Eastern Bloc

16.   Muck stables

17.   Take a photography class

18.   Break off a toxic friendship without feeling guilty

19.   Learn to ride a horse

20.   Learn passable Greek and Mandarin

21.   Own my dream home, complete with wrap-around front porch and acreage

22.   Landscape a yard

23.   Complete a successful home improvement project

24.   Go whale-watching in Alaska

25.   Go to the Mütter Museum

26.   Own a pair of classic Christian Louboutin pumps–Update! So, no Louboutin’s yet. But I did buy some Dior’s.

27.   Attend a gala where ladies must wear ball gowns

28.   Go to the big Jones Family Reunion celebration in Wales to meet my kinfolk

29.   Make enough money from this blog to make it a career

30.   Shop at Chloé on Madison Avenue

…has all but disappeared. But not because I’ve stopped buying shoes. Nay, I’ve probably bought more shoes in the last few months than I ever have in my entire life because, well, my husband is in Iraq and I’m very lonely. But, Steve Madden would never abandon me. Oh, Steve, you’re such a naughty boy.

A few weeks ago, some girlfriends and I went gangbusters in a Steve Madden store. (And by “my girlfriends and I,” I mean “I” went gangbusters in Steve Madden while my girlfriends stared in abject horror and my unbridled spending habits and my definitely-on-the-whorish-side taste. But, this shopping excursion was the closest thing to sex I’d had in months.) I think my eyes are still having sensory orgasms. Behold my babies:

The Chapp: “Quickly! Get me to the haberdashery shoppe! Wait, not that quickly! These are five-inch heels!”

The Kapture: This lovely spring green looks surprisingly pretty with, oh, everything.

The Reede: I can’t tell you how girlie these make me feel when I wear them. Oh, yes I can. This is my blog. “These make me feel so freakin’ girlie.”

The Togga: Uh, hello sexy dominatrix gladiator goddess.

God, I love Steve Madden. He’s so impractical.

The following are Google search terms that were used to find my site.  I like them; they are funny.  If you don’t want to read the whole list (but, tell me, who doesn’t?), the more ”out-there” ones are written in cool cyan.

Mythical Australian Shepherds

Delicate labia

User-generated porn

“Sierra Trading Post” cocaine

Detox foot pads smell like bacon (Actually, more accurately they smell like rotting potatoes.)

Calf porn

Most disturbing website (I’m very proud of this one.)

Jewel sucks (I second that.)

How to play ‘Twinkle, Twinkle Litter Star’ on the recorder

Girl on toilet bathroom poop fart

Porn platform sandals

Platform porn

Pitching a dog

Tampax toilet

Afghan hounds

What to call a dog

Dooce sucks (On the contrary, asshole.)

Naked honeymoon pics

Woman, water (So simple, so sweet.  I wonder what the hell they were looking for.)

Power flush toilet

Funny sign bathroom

I love the collective Internet.

I think I should make it known that the account I wrote about Sierra Trading Post was done on my own volition without the knowledge of, or input from, any current employees. It was my own account about my own experiences with the company and not a reflection of company-wide sentiment.

I think it should also be known that every single detail of my experience with Sierra Trading Post in that post is true. 

And, people, the part about being provided with free cocaine at my current job is false.  It’s called hyperbole.  Look it up.

Please note that all items in BRIGHT PINK are my own edits or additions made for the purpose of this post.

From: Me
Sent: Thursday, May 01, 2008 11:31 AM
To: Crazy Bitch Next Door
Cc: Husband in Iraq
Subject: Condo Sale

 

Bitch Next Door,

 

This is your neighbor Amber.  I received your letter yesterday and am writing to propose a solution to the dog barking problem.  Once again, I apologize that my dogs have interfered with the sale of your home.  (Actually, I am not sorry at all.  I’m just being polite.)  However, I would like it to be known that what you’re asking of me is a huge inconvenience.  And while I understand the situation is inconvenient for both of us, I am under no obligation to quiet my dogs or remove them from the premises when you have unanticipated showings.  In addition, I am not actually in violation of either condominium bylaws or city statutes as my dogs do not bark, whine or howl in an excessive or continuous fashion.  (Unfortunately, the 10 minutes of barking that your realtor supposedly heard during a showing does not qualify as “excessive” or “continuous,” but just perhaps “annoying.”) (And your realator Misti-Misti with an ’i'-is an idiot-also with an ’i’.) 

 

Ultimately, I do want you to sell your house and I don’t want impede that process.  (I would like you to move as quickly as possible so that I no longer need to waste my energy hating you.)  What I’m willing to do is take my dogs to a kennel during the day until your house sells.  I currently employ a dog walker that comes to my home three times a week to take the dogs out.  I pay her $160 per month.  As taking the dogs to a kennel would render my dog walker unnecessary, I would put that $160 toward paying the new kennel.  I would expect you to pay the remaining balance. I found a kennel willing to accept my dogs.  The daily charge for their care is $20.00 for both dogs (which is actually quite less than the going rate for other kennels in town), totaling $100 per week or $400 per month.  In response to your other suggestion of outfitting the dogs with shock collars, dogs cannot be left unattended with the collars on.  (Uh, that sounds pretty self-explanatory to me, but was obviously a much-too-difficult concept for you to wrap your head around when you made the retarded suggestion in the first place.)  Kenneling them seems to be the only reasonable solution.     

 

As Glen is in Iraq, (I like to play the “husband in Iraq” card as much as possible) I am the sole caregiver for these dogs until he returns and taking them to and from a kennel every day adds undue stress to my already hectic schedule.  I want to be neighborly and help you out (but not really), but the fact of the matter is that you have told me to take my dogs out of the house that I own in order for you to sell yours; I believe that is a lot to ask.  I hope this compromise is amenable to you. 

 

Please feel free to drop by my office sometime today or tomorrow to discuss this further.  I’m in the Gold-Paved Hallway in the Awesomeness department.  Or, you can call my cell phone at (deleted for my own protection).  Other contact information is listed below.  (Well, it was in the actual e-mail.)

 

Thanks,

 

Your Humblest of Neighbors

I been gettin’ a new job, suckas. 

Which only partially explains why I haven’t posted in, oh, three weeks.  See, I got a new job, but I also took a week off between quitting my old one and starting the new one.  I didn’t have Internet access, and I was blissfully and blessedly away from all things technological.  Um, except the credit card reader at Ann Taylor.  That c.c. swiper and I are total besties now.  Love you, Swipey! 

Wow, that was weird.

Anyway, I’d hinted a few times about what I did at my old job.  But here’s the full scoop.  I wrote clothing and activity guides for the web and wrote copy for catalogs at an outdoor clothing and gear company called Sierra Trading Post.  Anyone interested in working there, take note; don’t do it.  It is a hellhole, not unlike Auschwitz.  And since they have given me my last paycheck (AND BECAUSE I AM WRITING NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH), I can say these things without repercussion. 

For example, the head of the company sent out a memo a few months ago that we were not to listen to music during the day, even though, at least in my department, we didn’t deal with customers and worked creative jobs which sometimes required outside inspiration, like music.  The memo also stated that we were no longer allowed to keep food or eat at our desks (even though a lot of people worked through lunch and were unable to take the time to go to the lounge and eat).  This caused some civil unrest and prompted employees to turn their co-workers in to their supervisors for violating the rule. We were also discouraged from talking to our co-workers about non-work-related topics at all times because we were wasting company time and time is money. 

In addition, a new couch was put in an employee break area and not one, but two people reported to my boss that I had my shoed foot tucked up underneath me on the couch.  And I was going to ruin the precious couch! (Oh, excuse me, I thought a couch placed in a break area was for actually sitting on.  How silly of me to sit on a couch!  And, people, if you have a problem with a shoe on the couch, come up and tell me, don’t go tattle to my boss.  Unless you’re in pre-school.  Then it’s perfectly acceptable behavior.) This prompted my boss to write me a detailed e-mail about professionalism in the workplace.  Hilarious coming from a woman who cried all the time during staff meetings and couldn’t bother to wear clean clothes to work.

The final week I was there, the company also issued a mandate that certain appointed individuals were allowed to check all employee’s bags and…wait for it…cars, either randomly or if there was a susupicion of theft.  Sorry, I didn’t feel like busting my ass for a company that treated me like a criminal.

I think the biggest slight though was that I got my byline taken away when I published work to the web.  I wrote it, my name should be on it.  But alas…

At the end of my time at Sierra Trading Post, the job that I was hired to do was phased out and I was forced into a copywriting position, a job I purposely didn’t apply for when I was first trying to get on with the company.  (Writing copy for a bunch of God-awful closeout clothing wasn’t really how I wanted to use my English degree.  Sorry.)

So I found an amazing new job and gave my two weeks’ notice.

I was harrassed by my former boss for taking vacation days during my last two weeks at work, even though if I didn’t take my vacation days, I wouldn’t be reimbursed for them.  My two immediate bosses wouldn’t look me in the eye, let alone speak to me, after I gave my notice and then wondered why I didn’t stick around to say my grateful and gracious goodbyes. 

But my favorite part about leaving was when I was told to come in on my day off to have an “exit” interview with the head of HR-the interview could not possibly have been done over the phone or, you know, not at all-and then he stood me up.  Very professional. 

The only unfortunate thing about me quitting is that I left behind three lovely girls in my office that I miss dearly day-to-day.  (Girls, I’m sorry I wasn’t in touch the last few weeks.  I was sorting out my feelings about leaving and trying to get over some things that were said to me upon my departure that I didn’t want to burden you all with.  You have to work with those people after all!  Can we be friends again now?) 

But sometimes you need to sacrifice things you love to make your life better overall.  That was the decision I had to make when changing jobs.  And, let me tell you, my life is so much better at my new job.  And all the people here are very nice, and pretty, and shiny even and the halls are paved with gold. And I’m writing this post while eating at my desk in my own office and listening to music out loud, without headphones, and snorting free cocaine.

Okay, that part about the gold-paved hallways isn’t true.