The Parkway is one of my favorite places in the world. So simple, so beautiful- in a world of double-tandem semi-trucks and seventy miles per hour speed limits, the Parkway is a haven, a refuge. My parents don’t call me their “little ridge-runner” for no reason.

I regretted my route once; when I found myself behind a car with Iowa plates on a steep decent with more than a few descending decreasing radius curves- a fancy engineering term for a bitch of a curve. A descending radius curve is where the road changes elevation in the curve- you’re not just turning, you’re also going downhill. A decreasing radius curve is where the turn gets harder as you go through it.  So, of course, a declining decreasing radius curve is one that combines a drop in elevation with a tightening of the curve once you’re in it.

What makes these curves so treacherous? The grade of the decent causes your car to accelerate, which makes you want to hit your brakes to slow back down, but that makes it almost impossible to steer into the apex of the curve. You pick up speed when it is the last thing you need.

After you’ve driven in the mountains for awhile, you get the hang of these nasty little curves. You learn to start into them slower than you would a level turn. The car sets itself a line as you start the curve and pick up speed, and your job is to interfere as little as possible with that natural line, steering only as much as necessary, and only braking very lightly just before the apex if absolutely necessary.

People from Iowa are perhaps not familiar with this technique. So they fight the line. They ride their brakes or hit their brakes hard in the apex, which makes steering much harder. I feel for them- they’re scared, they’re getting a lesson in vehicle physics that isn’t had in Iowa, they are white-knuckled and full of fear. (Not to mention that they’re melting their brake pads and running the risk of losing braking power altogether). It’s frustrating and irritating for me to ride behind them; they ruin my line when they fight their own, but I’m irritated while they are scared for their lives.

I wish I could tell them not to fight the line. To slow down a little more coming in, if they’re nervous, but once the curve starts, take your foot off the pedals and just steer. Fighting the line is actually more dangerous.

I’ve been stressed, scared, frustrated, angry and unsure of myself. The life I dream of is on the horizon, and the life I once cherished is ending slowly but surely, like the passing of mileposts. I cannot see what the road looks like from where I’m at to where I’m surely headed, and that element of uncertainty is what makes me crazy. I drive myself crazy trying to plan and plot and scheme and prepare for every possible outcome or pitfall or obstacle, drafting plans A through ZZ in a attempt to find some security in life-changing situations that are well beyond my control.

I’ve been fighting the line. I’ve been braking and freaking out and over-steering like a flatlander. I’m making things much, much harder than they have to be, and more dangerous too, in the sense that my health and emotional stability have suffered, are suffering, and that means that I’m not bringing my best self to anything I’m involved in.

Time to take my foot off the brake, loosen my grip on the wheel and trust the road.

“Feel the wind
And set yourself the bolder course
Keep your heart
As open as a shrine
You’ll sail the perfect line..”

-bob seger “in your time”

I am of the firm belief that you can’t have one without the other.

Things don’t just fall into your lap. You have to know what to ask for.

Sometimes you ask for things and you never get them. You may make every effort possible, but things just don’t come together.

Every once in awhile, though, you ask for something and it comes forth like manna from heaven.

All of a sudden, you get more than you asked for.

You tell your Daddy that you think you might be joining the pink slip club before the leaves turn, and when you tell him that no, you are not working on your resume, you’re working on a business plan, he gets all proud and excited and thinks it’s perfect.

You tell your friends that you’re tired of working for The Man, and if this Man lets you down, you’re going to blaze your own trail, and they encourage you. They put their support behind you, and they bring opportunity to your table on a silver platter.

Suddenly, everywhere you turn there’s a chance to add a piece to the puzzle.

All because you asked. For the right thing. At the right time. The Universe returns your request with “approved” stamped all over it in big green letters.

At this point, I will be disappointed if that pink slip isn’t as sure of a thing as we all seem to think it is.

Actually if things continue to build momentum at the current rate, it won’t even matter whether or not I receive my freedom or retrieve it forcibly.

Providence. I has it.

Except she uses Turbo Tax. Okay. Fine. Easy, right?

Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong, wronger, wrongest.

Is there are more worthless piece of shit in the universe? I say no.

She basically paid $89.95 for a website to treat me like a five year old.

Everything was rocking right along until I came to the K1.

Do you have a K1?

Yes.

Enter your business revenue.

Wait, what? No, it’s not a business. It’s an estate. Where is that question? What?

Enter your business expenses.

THERE AREN’T ANY. THERE IS NO BUSINESS. IT IS AN ESTATE. WHERE IS THAT QUESTION?

We have created a Schedule C for your business.

NO! DON’T DO THAT! I DON’T NEED A SCHEDULE C. I NEED THE SPOT ON THE LONG FORM FOR MY K1 AMOUNTS!

Sorry, too late. Schedule C created. Your audit risk is now 23498982374982374%.

Is it a trust or estate?

FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! HOW DO I DELETE SCHEDULE C?

Enter the name of the estate.

FINE. <entered name of estate>

Check the boxes on the K1 that have amounts on them.

<check, check, check>

Enter those amounts here.

<enter, enter, enter>

Congratulations! We’ve finished your Income section!

WHERE IS MY COOKIE

Now we will start the eleventy hundred deduction screens.

NO, NO, NO, I JUST NEED MORTGAGE INTEREST, PROPERTY TAXES AND DONATIONS.

Do you have a child?

NO, MY WOMB IS UNUSED AND HOLLOW. HAVE YOU BEEN TALKING TO MY  MOTHER?!

Are you a full time student?

MORTGAGE INTEREST, PLZ. I HAS IT.

Are you blind?

I MIGHT BE, BECAUSE YOU FUCKERS MIGHT GIVE ME A GODDAMNED STROKE IN A MINUTE.

Would you like to join Mint.com?

NO, I WOULD LIKE TO ENTER HER *(@#&$*($&* MORTGAGE INTEREST AND PROPERTY TAXES.

Do you own a home?

YES! YES I DO! HA! I HAVE ACCOMPLISHED SOMETHING IN MY THIRTY YEARS! oh wait. YES, SHE OWNS A HOME.

<enter mortgage interest and property taxes>

Eleven screens later….

Did you make any charitable donations?

YES.

Enter them here, by item.

<HEAD EXPLODES>

I ended up having to go through the whole thing and then go back to the summary to delete Schedule C. If my stomach hadn’t been upset, I would have probably been drunk at that point.

Yeah, I know the IRS is seven shades of ridiculous, but I will take their nice, thick instruction booklet and a 1040 long form that smells like the library any day over paying $89.95 for a mini-stroke.

My love affair with pens began as soon as I learned to write. One of life’s simplest pleasures is the feeling of a pen moving across paper. When my addiction started, I went for the cheap stuff. At four shoe boxes full, I was a hoarder. Should a set of eight be broken by the demise or theft of one pen, the entire set had to be replaced. I might still be guilty of this, though I’ve trimmed down considerably from four shoe boxes.

I was introduced to Montblanc pens when I entered the business world. I fell in love immediately. The weight of the pen in my hand felt divine, and there was no better rush than gliding a pen of such painstaking craftsmanship over a piece of blank paper.

Everyone whose station in office life I envied had one. The star in the cap became more than your average status symbol. I wanted one of those stars. I wanted to be a star.  Signing my name with one of those precious pens, producing it from my purse nonchalantly- it would mean that I had arrived. I wanted all of that so badly I could taste it.

As the years worn on and I came to understand the demands of life as a ladder climber, my desire for status waned. My lust for Montblanc pens did not. I started writing again; at first in notebooks and word documents that no one would ever see, and eventually on the internet where everyone can see.

Most of my posts still start on paper. I always carry a pretty notebook so that when inspiration hits, I can capture it wherever I am. The pens I use to write in those notebooks have a few simple requirements- they must be pretty to look at and heavy in my hand.

A flimsy pen is not an appropriate tool for heavy words, as mine here so often are. I’ve gone exclusively to ballpoint for pens of this purpose; my handwriting when I’m excited or emotional is harder to read later when I’m typing if I write with a rollerball, and the feeling of the pen across the paper is deliberately slower and heavier in pressure.

Enter the Ingrid Bergman collection. A tribute to the leading lady of Casablanca, a woman known for her natural beauty and passionate intensity, a woman I admire for her style and grace.

photo credit: ingridbergman.com

“A kiss is a lovely trick designed by nature to stop speech when words become superfluous.”

“I’ve never sought success in order to get fame and money; it’s the talent and the passion that count in success.”

The La Donna is a feminine pen, unlike the somewhat masculine Meisterstucks carried by fat middle-aged corporate men. A pen seemingly designed to be the vessel for my story, for my signature, for capturing my essence on paper. This pen is not a symbol of my status in the corporate world, of my salary and title. This particular pen would be a symbol of who I am as a person, a woman, a writer.

It would serve as a constant reminder of who I am, why I write and who I strive to be. Other people may not realize the significance of it, but if I ever hold that pen in my hand and feel the pleasure of gliding it over the blank page in a journal or signing my name with it? Every stroke will feel like a sonnet to what I hope is my best self.

“She has a combination of rare beauty, freshness, vitality and ability that is as uncommon as a century plant in bloom.”
–film critic Wanda Hale about Ingrid Bergman

You can look. You can appreciate. Staring slack-jawed and following me to my car? Not cool. I wouldn’t touch you with a 2000 ft. long cattle prod, but someone might be willing if they couldn’t smell you before they saw you.

NOT fondly,

girl in dire need of coffee who does not flirt before noon

Dear Walgreens Pharmacist:

I have taken birth control since I was thirteen. That’s over half of my life. I do not have questions about it. I know you have to ask. You don’t have to apologize for asking, and it isn’t awkward. It’s my body and my medicine, and my health, and if I had a question, I would ask you, even if it was really unpleasant. Obviously, you feel it is awkward to ask me if I have any questions regarding my birth control, and that begs the question…  why do you dispense medication for a living?

Respectfully,

that girl who’s cool with her reproductive organs, like on a first name basis and everything.

Dear He Who Must Be Tolerated and Managed Up:

Seriously, quit trying to engage me in conversation when I am trying to leave for lunch. You’re two hours behind me, and I’m sorry that when you get settled in and ready to pester me, I’m starving and bitchy or not even here, but a girl has to eat (and go to Walgreens). Also, why schedule a call for a two minute conversation easily handled by email? Modern technology- is like it!

Not so respectfully,

The Thorn in Your Side

PS: Unrelated- I need some of your finger clippings for a craft project….

Dear You Know Who You Are*,

Well. We established that you make me crazy in the good way, so it only stands to reason that sooner or later, you were gonna make me crazy in the bad way. I warned you that I was difficult, and you shrugged it off… until last night. I actually feel better about you than I did before all the crazy leaked out my ears, and I almost feel safe in saying that you feel better about me. Well played, my dear.

quite fondly,

The girl who warned you that she idled at difficult

PS:  um, i probably shouldn’t tell you this, but threatening to turn me over your knee when I’m being difficult is probably not the deterrent you think it is….

Dear Daddy,

You know that thing you do where you just send me money for no reason? Now would be an excellent time to do that.

all my love,

your spoiled silly daughter

Dear You Won’t Know Who You Are, Because You’re Too Humble:

I truly enjoy our friendship. You’ve taught me more in a few months than I learned over the last ten years. When the little chat box pops up from you, I grin. Every time.

affectionately,

The girl you keep on the straight and narrow

*We have not declared open season on the blog, so he is not reading here. Yet. I’m spoon feeding him posts, and if he doesn’t run away or vomit them up, then soon. Soon.

I’m sitting here in my cozy little farmhouse, in a southwestern-facing cove at 2900 feet, working on budget reports for the senior management team, having just finished my homework for the next week. I won’t be in my private office complete with mini-fridge and bow-front desk for another two weeks, because when I’m done with jury duty, I’m spending a week in the corporate office to meet with the corporate controller and his senior accountants.

When you found me, I was running a switchboard and surfing the internet. That was only seven years ago. Those two vapid executive assistants were crimping my style. I had no education, nothing but administrative experience, and my future was a dim shadow. You saw something in me, despite the fact that I bratted out on you whenever the opportunity presented itself.

I know that I’ve created and earned my success. I understand that I was the one who did the work. That doesn’t change the fact that you were the first person to see my potential, to see beyond my smartass mouth and youthful exuberance and find the talent and drive that brought me to this place. You’re not the only person to have helped me become what I am, but you were absolutely the first.

The opportunity you fought so hard to give me- and I know what you must have gone through- the patience you showed me, and the interest you took in my education and career- there are times I weep with gratitude when I really stop to think about it.

You’ve always been an incredible friend; a shoulder to cry on, a great source of trusted advice, someone who cared enough to raise my ire if I really needed to hear an unpleasant truth. You are everything a mentor could ever be, and what makes it too precious for words is this simple: all you ever wanted in return was my respect and affection. You have both in spades, sir.

Your sage words of advice; about dying inside, about the work being the bottom line, about dealing with idiots and assholes- I hear these phrases as I am resisting the urge to throw my office phone through the wall. You prepared me for corporate life in a very real and important way. I’m so very proud to tell you that when it comes to office politics, I am now 100% dead inside. It’s a strange and wonderful empty feeling- to know what to say and do to circumnavigate people and problems without really caring much about any of it. I’ve never done heroin, but perhaps this compares.  I throw the elephant as a parlor trick now, and you laid the foundation for it.

We’ve kept in touch, and that means the world to me. I miss working with you still, after all these years.

I take great comfort in knowing that you’ve found a wonderful woman to share your life with, and that you’ve brought an incredible child into the world. For a human being to miss out on the chance to have you as a father would be a bigger tragedy than I could swallow. You’ve been a father figure to me, and I’m a much better person for your interest in my mind, my heart, and even and especially, my soul.

Anything to add to my list?

If I had a magic wand, I would move a week of my vacation time during the holidays to next week. I would spend the next ten days in complete and utter solitude. At home. With the dog.

The exhaustion that I’m suffering right now seems endless. I can’t hardly keep my eyes open, even after a full night’s sleep. I could sleep for a week, I think, before I felt better.

As someone who has stood on the very edge of sanity and looked over the ledge, I can tell you that while I’m okay in the sense that I’m not a danger to myself or other people, I am losing my mind.

There’s a paranoia welling inside me. I take things the worst way possible. When people speak to me, I question their motives. I question their loyalty and allegiance. When I don’t hear from someone, they’re ignoring me, they don’t care anymore, they don’t want me bothering them. When I do hear from someone, I feel pressured. I hate the constant stream of panic and frustration I’m dealing with right now, and I hate exposing people to it. I don’t want to spend all of my free time completely alone, but I fear companionship. I fear making a fool of myself, I fear being talked about behind my back, I’m afraid of becoming- no, I’m afraid that I’ve already become that person, that girl, the subject of irritation and pity and duty.

The slightest imposition, say, my boss expecting me to do my job, or a coworker needing some information, or a two minute chore for my second job- these things make me seethe with resentment and I’m overwhelmed by the pressure to perform and not let this ordeal affect my performance. I don’t want to go to school, and I don’t want to do my homework, and I don’t want to read my textbooks.

So the only thing that gives me comfort right now, that brings me a sense of calm and well-being, is retreating. Hiding from my life, its pressures and demands. Giving up on my social life in hopes that my attachment to people will fade, so that everything can end quietly and be easy for everyone and I can avoid the humiliation and drama that will come from figuring out that people are rolling their eyes at me and hoping I don’t show up to parties and not telling me about events on purpose.

If I have to calm my Mom down one more time, I’m going to quit taking her calls. I know she’s worried, and I know that she’s going to rightfully react with anger when she feels I’ve been wronged, but her energy is AWFUL, HORRIBLE and TOXIC (see, it runs in the family! i just have the sense to see and admit it), and I. CAN’T. HANDLE. IT.

People want to know what’s going on, and I want to tell them, but I get tired of relaying the same awful information over and over and over again, and I want them to want to know, but I find myself wishing that there was just some way to make them know without having to talk about it ALL THE TIME.

I’ve grown to hate talking on the phone. I wish that people would just come see me, come sit on the porch and have a drink and talk about what color I should paint the living room and whether or not we’ll have a lot of snow this winter and what are you doing for the long weekend. My house is pretty far out from town, though, and people don’t come out. A few people come out sometimes, but for the most part, I don’t have company.

So, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to finish these entries and call my HR rep and see if I can’t plan a retreat, before I end up in a straitjacket in the psych ward.

“I really wish there was some place, online, that you could make a “wish list”, and I could go in there and pick something out when I had the extra cash.”

BWAHAHAHAHAHA! I asked her if she wanted me to set up an Amazon wish list. She did. So I did. This morning, I came into work and pulled the list up to see if I had added something yesterday- I couldn’t remember. I had added it, but I also noticed that a book I really wanted was no longer on my list. Thinking I had lost my mind, because I thought it was the first thing I added, I looked at the list filters to see if my settings were messed up. Nope, the only filter was “unpurchased”. Wait, what?

Apparently, the hot minute my Mom got the email notification about my wish list, she whipped out her debit card and bought me the book. I’m too excited- it’s a book about learning to live alone, and it was written by a widow, so no bitterness or divorce crap, just “How to Move to the Middle of the Bed”. Exactly.

Needless to say, I’m now loading that list the hell up. If Mama wants to flex her debit card muscles on my behalf? Let’s not have her running out of ideas!

i wish the internet had smellovision...

Someone… someone whom I have a deep set adoration for knows my penchant for hot baths. So she loaded me up with a ton of Raspberry Mango Tango bath stuff and lip gloss too, for good measure. As if that wasn’t enough?! She also sent me something of a sampler pack of her other flavors and scents. Get your hands on some of this stuff. Seriously. It’s like heaven in your bathtub.

I also thought I would share some office pics. You know, where the magic happens.

this why they call my office "the jungle"...

Yes, that is an electric tea kettle sitting on top of my mini fridge. I’m one of those.

my kingdom for a trellis...

Please to notice the growed up office chair and the mirror on the wall by the door, perfect for putting my makeup on before I go out at night, and not a minute sooner.

internet, meet b!

This is the view from the door. B is pretty much always in that chair. I’m not sure she doesn’t sit there all night while I’m at home asleep….

uh, how did facebook get onto my work monitor?

This is the exact view that I enjoy for the majority of my waking hours. Life certainly could be worse.

As scintillating as I’m sure you’re finding this, I only have one more photo for you. It’s important though.

"Cats seem to go on the principle that it never does any harm to ask for what you want."

Since you can’t read the words at the bottom, I made it the caption. I find this piece very indicative of my nature, and that’s why I’m so compelled to share it with you. My boss got a good laugh out of it.

There you have it. Pictures and presents, and now you know what my office looks like.

By the way, do you need a wedding dress?

Happy Friday, lovelies!