Unliveable

This morning I got the rejection note from the NYC Teaching Fellowship. I knew it was coming; I knew since the middle of my interview evening at the start of March. (The interview process included a basic verbal and maths test, a fake be-a-teacher-thing, a discussion period, and a writing portion. I did well on everything, except the fake be-a-teacher-thing. You know, the most important thing.)

Anyway, it would have hurt more (before I edited this, I accidentally wrote "it would have heart more" -- hi, psychological slip!), but I was expecting it. Plus, I had already had a few drinks when I got the message. In any case, I didn't cry like I did when I got the rejection letter from the Mississippi Teaching Corps a few days ago. Instead I shouted "woohoo!" sarcastically and went for a drive with my cigarettes and Me First and the Gimmie Gimmies.

I leave for Israel to-night. (I'm going to stay at my brother's to-night because he lives near the airport, then going to the airport to-morrow.) I should be looking forward to it, but I'm facing a lot of time (3 weeks) with a lot a family (at least 10 people for most of that time). This includes holiday meals and don't-wear-trousers-around-my-easily-influenced-infant-WHO-CAN'T-TELL-THE-DIFFERENCE-BECAUSE-HE'S-AN-INFANT. Fuck you, brother-in-law.

I'm not looking forward to the next three weeks. or the next three years. Or the next three decades. There is not enough vodka on this planet to make the upcoming time liveable.

Things That Are Good

1. Driving. Oh my god, how did I NEVER like this before? Maybe it's better when you don't have someone in the passenger seat gasping and pressing their foot into the floorboards at every turn. My only experience that didn't include this included an ugly accident.

2. Getting paid. It has been so long since I last got paid It almost made the incessant filling and organizing of old files worthwhile. Almost.

3. Pint bottles of vodka. They're cute! And they fit in your purse!

4. Litre bottles of vodka. There's just so much to drink! And you can use them to refill the pint-size bottles. See (3).

5. Cheese. No explanation necessary.

Joy, At Last

I finally understand the logic (or lack thereof) of the joy ride.

I never, ever drive. NEVARR. Last time I drove I got into an accident on La Cienega that resulted in nearly $500 worth of damage. Thank god, that's not too much in the scheme of accidents-that-result-in-insurance-debates-and-the-eventual-outlay-of-money. Since then, though, I haven't been on the insurance, I haven't driven, and I haven't wanted to drive. Granted, most of that time I was in New York and driving was like, um, why? But still, there have been a number of weeks in LA, the City of Necessitated Driving.

Since my parents departed for Jerusalem last week, I have had to be at work on "The Westside"; while in theory, I was going to take the bus the drive (without traffic) takes 30 minutes, and the bus takes thrice as long. I wish I was exaggerating.

So I've driven. (Fates: don't you even dare. I will slit your throats. ALL OF YOU.)

So this joy ride feeling: I came home to-day and needed out, so I made up an excuse (to myself) to run an errand (Don't ask where. Fine, to the booze shop on Vista) with trashy "up" music playing. But that wasn't good enough. So I went around the block again with trashy 102.7FM music playing. It was satisfying.

OK, that was the lamest joy ride ever, but what I mean to say is I GET IT. And I WANT MORE.

Heal/Hail

I had an afternoon to-day with a friend of mine from high school. E is probably the only one from my graduating class (and many more classes before and after ours) with whom I can still connect. We spent four or so hours just enjoying each others' company and it was the first time I laughed authentically in weeks, if not longer.

Within an hour after her departure I was in emotional distress. No, "distress" is not the word. I was in this state of bland pain. Rather, painful blandness. I spent a few hours thinking to myself I was going mad with boredom (to some, that might be translated as "loneliness," but that is not quite what I felt, I think). I did crosswords and SuDoKu and caught up my celebrity gossip, but this "I'm going mad" feeling did not pass.

I nicked some wine from my parents' cupboard and things eased. Then I went out and bought some of my own. Things are much better now.

I pretend that I have recovered from my all-too-recent alcohol-as-a-crutch days, but if I have not, I am OK with that. It doesn't get in the way of family, friends, work, life, anything. It just makes all of these more easy to tolerate.

All hail!

Open Letter: LA

Dear Los Angeles,

I was warming up to you again (sort of), but to-day was quite disappointing. If you only bring the sun out at 4.oo pm, well, you can't expect me to be pleased. You do realize, of course, that the hope of getting some colour is the main reason I endure this situation.

Oh, Los Angeles, I know that was harsh. I just need to be honest if we're going to be in this "live together" relationship. I know that you're aware of how difficult you can be, and of how our dispositions don't match all too often. I know I can be difficult for you, too, what with the shit-talking I can do. Still, I love you. At least, I love some of the memories we share.

Listen, Los Angeles, I know I'm rambling. I'm sure you have as much difficulty dealing with me as I do with you. But please. Let's work together. If you can give me some good sun and sweet breezes (I know you have it in you; don't hold back to spite me), I will ask nothing else of you, and in return, I won't bad-mouth you at all.

Los Angeles, I know we have a lot of history and based on that we may never love each other the way we once did. But since we have to live together, let's be civil, if not sweet.

Much affection,
Rina

Golden Day

Two words for you, GRE: Suh. Kit.

I just rocked the exam. I even got to use the term "aetataureate delusion" in an essay. I win at life. For once.

Up. Down. Down.

Ah, I feel somewhat relieved to have one of my lies/absences of truth come to the open. I found out to-night that both my parents are well aware of my tattoo. I think I feel a bit happy about it, because they haven't ever been angry with me for it (as I assumed they would) and to-night they sort of mentioned it in passing.

Apparently my mother has known about it for not-quite-a-year, and I'd assume the same from my father. I kind of like that I had a year's "head start," or whatever.

I kind of wish they didn't know. I liked t better that way. Even so, since they do know, I'm pleased that they've handled it so well. First time for everything!

PS Fuck. While I've been writing this they've started yelling at each other again. It was too good to last. Ten minutes of civility, even friendliness, and it's over.