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Monday, Money Woes and Wonky Cable *sigh* I had a bit of a financial heart-to-heart with Lyndon today, and things are not good. Because he can pay it off in Sweden, I've been using my AMEX card to do things like pay for gas, meals, the occasional trip to the doctor, et al. It's easier because he doesn't have to send me money to cover that sort of thing, and I can get instant service. Unfortunately, what with having to pay two sets of rent and upkeep on each side of the Atlantic, he's starting to get behind on the bill installments. Apparently AMEX just sent him a grouchy letter demanding to be paid, which probably means that they'll put a stop on the card at the end of the month unless he pays the bill. And as far as I know, he has a choice between paying the bill or paying for my August rent and car note. *sigh* This sucks. I need to get a job, and pretty damn quick -- anything that will bring in some money. The phrase, "Do you want fries with that" is starting to look appealing. And if things aren't already kind of sucky, I tried to see if I could find the second half of "The Mists of Avalon" on TNT tonight, and discovered that the cable is out. Again. Which means I have to call SIMCOM tomorrow and find out what got dislodged this time. By the way, I do notice the dichotomy between the lack of money and the possession of cable, but cable service in my apartment complex comes bundled with the phone service. I could call up and cancel the cable, I suppose, but that would only save $50 or so a month, not nearly enough to put a dent in the general utility bills. Oh, well. At least I like peanut butter -- I'll probably be eating a lot of it for the rest of the month.
Watch out -- she's getting philosophical again It's kinda strange -- after getting back from the concert last night, I was wandering around the house and debating whether to take a shower immediately or write up my concert review, when I realized I had a taste for something. Specifically, a beer. I have no idea why -- I don't like beer, never have (high school doesn't count -- I didn't know that Bailey's existed back then). But last night a beer just seemed like the right thing to drink. So I had one of Lyndon's leftover Tennants and went out to sit on the balcony and listen to the wind. We've been getting a stiff southern wind lately that whistles around the windows and makes you think it's cold out there, until you step out and feel that hairdryer blast of heat in your face. And I sat there trying to figure out why I felt so let down after the concert. Would you believe it all came down to self-image? I realized that I was caught on the horns of my old sig file: "Actors are those who need to have people pay close attention to them. I write, which means I have an large ego best viewed from a distance." As much as I adored DMB and got a kick out of seeing them live, the idea of sitting in an audience with the other fans was weirdly demeaning. In that stadium, I was just another face in the crowd, a crowd that was focused on other folks (who were, admittedly, pouring their hearts into a kick-ass performance). And it annoyed me. Which is totally stupid, I know, but you all should have guessed by now that I have a somewhat fragile and not too sensible ego. In fact, I'll let you in on a little secret, a glimpse of what goes on in Melanie's mind when she's doing something that doesn't require a lot of brainpower: I may look like I'm stuck in traffic or sitting in the world's most boring staff meeting, but in my head I'm doing some absolutely spectacular shit. I may be jamming with a band in front of a cheering crowd, or accepting an Oscar for Best Original Screenplay, or disarming a nuclear bomb before it turns a city into radioactive rubble, or rappelling down the side of a burning building with a child strapped to me, or shooting down aliens before they blow up Chicago. Even death is not too high a price to pay, as long as it comes with post-mortem glory for saving the Earth -- Harry Stamper, c'est moi. (At this point, Lyndon is sitting in Stockholm with his mouth open, thinking, "Oh, God, I've left her alone for too long -- she's finally gone around the twist.") Before you start dialing for the nearest fool farm, allow me to explain that there are solid psychological reasons for why I feel this way, and that I'm working through them -- I'm not about to go off and do something stupid, honest. In fact, I had something of an epiphany while I was sitting at the table, sipping my beer and daydreaming about. . .oh, Lord, this is embarrassing, but I was daydreaming about hanging out with the band and chatting with Dave about music and stuff, my subconscious being good enough to supply the other half of the conversation. And being the attention-craving showoff that I am, we started noodling around on guitars while I tried to 1) look cool and 2) sound like I had a vague idea of what I was doing. At which point, my subconscious threw me a curve ball via Dave. He stopped in mid-pluck, gave me this long, funny look and said, "Why are you trying to impress me with something I can do myself? Why don't you just impress me with something you can do." Whoa. And whoa again. I suddenly understood what my poor beleaguered subconscious was trying to tell me -- I have this deep and sincere admiration for people who can play guitar (like Dave), or draw (like Scott Liles), or do anything that I wish I could do well. I look at what they create and think, "Jeez, that's good. That's special. I'd love to do something like that." And to paraphrase Steve Martin, being around people I find interesting means I want to be interesting, too -- unfortunately I usually find myself showing off, which is the idiot's version of being interesting. But when it comes to something I can do well, such as writing, I blow it off because if I can do it, it can't be that tough, right? It's not interesting, it's not special -- everybody can write, can't they? Ahem. Clue Fairy, party of one. I don't know why I feel like I'm not supposed to be proud of this talent -- and dammit, it is a talent. Not everybody can write well. And yet, the little voice in the back of my head keeps whispering that it's not that big of a deal, I shouldn't blow it out of proportion, who do I think I am, anyway? Of course, that little voice has also been known to spout some incredible rubbish in the past. Why, gosh. It sounds an awful lot like my parents. Who'd a thunk it? Well, fuck it -- from now on, I am proud of being a good writer. I have a unique and impressive skill, and I'm going to use it to the very depth and breadth and height of its reach. I may never be famous, but goddammit, I am going to make my mark on this world. And all this from a beer. Man, I need to start drinking more often.
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