A while back I bought a ton of on-sale ground meat. I cooked it and froze the lot. My roommate at the time said that sounded smart and the meat smelled great. I replied somberly, "Hopefully it freezes okay." As if this were a major concern, and I didn't want to get my hopes up in case of disappointment. ... It's hamburger meat.
I realized, I was sort of doing this for everything. Adopting an attitude of, "It's okay if things don't turn out, because I was never really hoping for it in the first place. Feh. I don't care." Not realizing that in this general outlook on life, "things" meant how my life here in LA might turn out, whether I quit my job because I felt underemployed, whether I would move back to Missouri because I couldn't stand the loneliness, and I would worry about feeling like a big fat failure - later. All of which are things about which I do care and hope, as I should. Fear can falsely convince one to shrink inside his own life.
Laura Ingalls Wilder wrote nine books discussing the course of her young life. Between the 7th and 8th books, Laura omitted certain sad events including the birth of and death of her younger brother who died at nine months, and the course of the Scarlet Fever that caused her sister, Mary, to lose her sight and go blind. Not to compare my struggles to those of a pioneer woman, but well, sometimes we don't like to dwell on what is uncomfortable, do we.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=85k12-MOkJA&feature=autoplay&list=PL8B7A6BD0FEEA8ABB&playnext=4
Anyway. I moved. My former roommate and I, the woman who's an accountant for Cancer research, well, we reached a mutual agreement that I should kindly vacate the premises. We like one another, but our living habits are different enough that sharing the same space, while doable, created stress for both of us. Of course, once we had that conversation, everything became far more relaxed around the house, and I was still moving out.
I had a month, according to the government, to find a new address. I met with several people. Highlights include the apartment with the guy who, while he kept the place very clean, decorated it with tattoo art. A busty, scantily clad woman with ink-shaded cleavage adorned the living-room wall. Then there was the woman who was very nice, owned two cats, an out-of-tune baby-grand piano, and a small cottage about fifteen minutes from my work. Sounds perfect. Then we met. When I commented on how I liked the white walls and the openness it created in the space, she said it helped combat depression. She explained how she was an unemployed artist, just out of a fifteen-year relationship, depressed, and a recovering compulsive-eater. But it would probably be okay for me to eat whatever I wanted. The last roommate had food and she, the landlord, would see the wrappers and it didn't really bother her, so it should be fine. She offered me hot tea in a mason jar. She let me hold it with oven-mitts so I wouldn't burn my fingers because she didn't have mugs or teacups.
Fortunately, I had previously met with a nice guy named Randy. We met for about an hour at the B&N at The Grove (a souped up and even prettier version of the Kansas City Plaza). I later went on to mis-judge his house because as I was exiting after I viewed it, I tripped down the front steps and sprained my ankle but-good. When I had to find a new place asap, I got over it. Now this is my new home, and I like it. I have two roommates, Randy and Rocki (a girl). They're both aspiring actors and friendly, caring people. And they don't care if the dishes sit in the sink overnight.
I realized, I was sort of doing this for everything. Adopting an attitude of, "It's okay if things don't turn out, because I was never really hoping for it in the first place. Feh. I don't care." Not realizing that in this general outlook on life, "things" meant how my life here in LA might turn out, whether I quit my job because I felt underemployed, whether I would move back to Missouri because I couldn't stand the loneliness, and I would worry about feeling like a big fat failure - later. All of which are things about which I do care and hope, as I should. Fear can falsely convince one to shrink inside his own life.
Laura Ingalls Wilder wrote nine books discussing the course of her young life. Between the 7th and 8th books, Laura omitted certain sad events including the birth of and death of her younger brother who died at nine months, and the course of the Scarlet Fever that caused her sister, Mary, to lose her sight and go blind. Not to compare my struggles to those of a pioneer woman, but well, sometimes we don't like to dwell on what is uncomfortable, do we.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=85k12-MOkJA&feature=autoplay&list=PL8B7A6BD0FEEA8ABB&playnext=4
Anyway. I moved. My former roommate and I, the woman who's an accountant for Cancer research, well, we reached a mutual agreement that I should kindly vacate the premises. We like one another, but our living habits are different enough that sharing the same space, while doable, created stress for both of us. Of course, once we had that conversation, everything became far more relaxed around the house, and I was still moving out.
I had a month, according to the government, to find a new address. I met with several people. Highlights include the apartment with the guy who, while he kept the place very clean, decorated it with tattoo art. A busty, scantily clad woman with ink-shaded cleavage adorned the living-room wall. Then there was the woman who was very nice, owned two cats, an out-of-tune baby-grand piano, and a small cottage about fifteen minutes from my work. Sounds perfect. Then we met. When I commented on how I liked the white walls and the openness it created in the space, she said it helped combat depression. She explained how she was an unemployed artist, just out of a fifteen-year relationship, depressed, and a recovering compulsive-eater. But it would probably be okay for me to eat whatever I wanted. The last roommate had food and she, the landlord, would see the wrappers and it didn't really bother her, so it should be fine. She offered me hot tea in a mason jar. She let me hold it with oven-mitts so I wouldn't burn my fingers because she didn't have mugs or teacups.
Fortunately, I had previously met with a nice guy named Randy. We met for about an hour at the B&N at The Grove (a souped up and even prettier version of the Kansas City Plaza). I later went on to mis-judge his house because as I was exiting after I viewed it, I tripped down the front steps and sprained my ankle but-good. When I had to find a new place asap, I got over it. Now this is my new home, and I like it. I have two roommates, Randy and Rocki (a girl). They're both aspiring actors and friendly, caring people. And they don't care if the dishes sit in the sink overnight.
