This post is a rant and a confession and an invocation. I might curse. Forgive me.

Earlier this week I was watching Tough Love reruns on VH1 On Demand (don’t judge me). I actually love Tough Love. It teaches women to get over themselves, and be open to love. It also teaches them how to go after what they want, which is in this case, a man.

I was watching the episode where the ladies posed for a photos where they were supposed to be sexy. They were meant to be sexy, not slutty, not skanky, not tomboyish, not porn star, not business casual. Sexy.

Of course the ladies each had their own ideas about what sexy looks like.  Some wore t-shirts and boxers, there were a couple of short pleated skirts and baby doll dresses, one girl wore a large button down shirt, in past seasons, girls have worn next to nothing, or strawberries and whipped cream.  Most of them failed miserably at being sexy.

One girl, whose pictures came out horribly, kept saying that she didn’t know how to be sexy because she used to be fat.   Men never look at me, she said. Sexy isn’t something that I know anything about, she whined.

I call bullshit. How dare she use her weight as an excuse for not knowing how to be sexy!

I have always, ALWAYS been the fat friend. Even when I was 17 and a size 8, I was the fat friend with size 2 friends. In college, when I was a size 12, I was the fat friend surrounded by size 4’s and 6’s. Now, at my most rotund, my friends run marathons, and climb rocks, and do other ridiculously athletic shit like that.  I secretly hate those skinny bitches

As the fat friend, you might think I’d be relegated to the sidelines, watching all my skinny friends get hit on and danced with and talked to.

Nope.

In all my years of being the fat friend, I’ve never, NEVER not been sexy. Regardless of the thickness of my thighs, or the jiggle of my stomach, or the pudge in my cheeks, I am always among the sexiess people in the room.  I’ve never had a problem with getting attention from WHOMEVER I want.  Even in the gym (post workout!!) people try to get my phone number.  I get chatted up on the walking trail near my house.

So how dare this recently skinny chick talk about how she doesn’t know how to be sexy because she used to be fat? I wanna elbow her in the stomach for spouting that stupidity on TV and fuck VH1 for even allowing that to make it in the broadcast.

This poor woman’s problem has little to do with the number on the scale, and everything to do with her lack of self confidence. She doesn’t think she’s sexy. Not when she was fat, and not even now since she’s skinny. Somewhere along the way, she lost her mojo.

You can call it mojo, self-esteem, inner spark, personality, whatever. She lost hers. And that makes me sad for her.

But I’m pissed because somewhere some chunky girl heard her talk shit about her weight and might have thought, Oh I can’t be sexy because of my weight?

Dear Fat Girls of the World: You, too, can be sexy.

A few weeks ago I attended an awesome Food Seminar at Woo Cosmetics on carbohydrates with a buddy of mine.  Leaving the seminar my friend and I were talking about body size and body image, and I mentioned how being the fat friend has never stopped me from also being the sexy friend or the pretty friend or whatever.

She looked at me with a funny little frown. She said, I’ve never thought of you as my fat friend.  You have too much sass and spark to be the fat friend.

Notice that nothing she said had anything to do with how much I actually weigh. Being the fat friend is a state of mind, not the size of your skirt.

I have a friend who insults people by calling them fat. I look at the girls she calls fat and cringe. Because the girls she calls fat so aren’t. And if she thinks they’re fat, then what the fuck does she think of me?

I know for a fact that she thinks I’m gorgeous and athletic and too cool for my cube. She doesn’t even think about my weight when she cattily insults someone by calling them a fatty.

Even when you ARE the fat friend, it’s still what is inside that counts. Regardless of weight, age, height, whatever, we all can be sexy.

You might need to reach down inside yourself, find your mojo, set it up on your shoulder, and  smile but dammit your sexy is THERE. Bring it out and show it to us.

She had a saying that I still repeat to myself.

“Unless you get hit by a bus, you are going to be ok.  No matter what.”

For two and a half years, all the time I worked with her, no matter what the crisis, the Doc never wavered.

No matter that I broke off my engagement.

No matter that I quit my job to go back to school.

No matter that I have to make friends (or at least TRY to be nice to people).

No matter that I started a new relationship.

No matter that I came out to my mother as a lesbian.

No matter that I wasn’t the smartest and most active in school

No matter that I constantly worried about stuff that probably won’t happen.

No matter what.

Every month she reminded me that as long as I didn’t get hit by a bus, I would survive.

Whenever I get overwhelmed, or frustrated or afraid I try to remember that I haven’t been hit by a bus, so I must be ok.

A few weeks ago a friend (let’s call her Carla) and I were discussing our bosses and the undying love (not) that each of us has for our jobs. I told Carla how I had no intention or desire to work in state government, yet here I am.  I went on to tell her how state government sucks and I hate every minute of it.

Later in the conversation, Carla asked me what exactly I’d like to do. So I told her about what I hope to accomplish one day with Cosmopolitan Urbanist, and I told her about my research in affordable housing, downtown redevelopment, and community development. I told her about the project that I’m working on with my gym. Not concretely saying what I want to do, just kind of listing the stuff that really interests me.

Then Carla told me about her ideal job. And I decided to steal it.

So in the Spirit of Carla’s career statement, here goes my own:

I want a job where I’m hired because I’m me. The organization(s) trusts in me enough to do my job, without interference, without daily reporting, without having to clock in or sit in a cube all day.  I want a wide variety of interesting, socially conscious, useful projects and the freedom to pick which ones I want. I want to work without always needing to work at “break neck” speed but always keeping my deadlines in sight. I want to work with a group of interesting, creative, and social individuals that like and respect me.  And I don’t want to wait until I’m 50 (or 30, for that matter) to get this job.

Thinking in “big picture” reminded me of what I used to tell people in graduate school when they’d ask me what I wanted to do after graduation:   I want to work for an organization that allows me to work on large social problems, helps me to grow professionally and personally, in an environment that’s friendly and inclusive, in a large metropolitan area.

People always looked at me strangely when I said that. I think they wanted me to say something simple like, I want to work in local government or non-profits, or consulting, or urban development. I learned early that my ideal work environment is way more important to me that the actual work that I’m assigned. More often than not, even digging ditches can be fun if you’re doing it with a great group of people.

Don’t get me wrong, I think I would hate flipping burgers even if my 6 favorite bloggers joined me every day [thought it would be fun for a while], but to me, a good work environment is just as important as doing important work. Having worked with great co-workers doing menial tasks and not-so-great co-workers doing relatively good work; I’d rather stuff envelopes and have someone fun to talk to any day of the week.

I’m hoping for the trifecta: a great team of co-workers, work that’s engaging- intellectually and socially, and mornings where I don’t wake up hating the fact that I have to work.

So, Universe, bring me my ideal job,  Mmmhkay?

I can’t remember when I fell in love with Long Island Iced Tea (LIT). Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised that my late teens and early twenties are such a blur, but it seems that I quickly graduated from sipping my mother’s strawberry daiquiris, to having someone order my rum and Cokes or Margaritas, to buying my own cheap boxed Merlot for the dorm room and ordering LIT out in public.

I’ve decided to blame the drugged environment of the fine dining restaurant where I worked in college. We had a couple of amazing bartenders that loved nothing more than push alcoholic beverages in my face and watch my face light up with their yumminess.  I remember my 21st birthday, and the dismay on the general manager’s face when he heard my age because I’d been drinking there for years.

Aside: I experienced a number of firsts in that restaurant- my first scotch and water, my first sashimi, my first rare steak, my first cigar, my first LEGAL drink, the first job I loved, probably my first LIT. It’s likely that working in that restaurant from age 19-22 years laid the foundation for debaucherous decade that has become my twenties.

The LIT has certainly played a starring role during this decade. For whatever reason, in spite of all the other drinks that I’ve come to love: the Grey Goose Gimlet, the Tangeray Gin and Tonic, Jack and Ginger or Coke, or if I’m feeling sophisticated, a nice spicy Cabernet, or girly; a sweet Riesling….. I most often order a LIT.  You just CAN’T go wrong with an LIT.

As I approach the twilight years of the decade, I’m blessed to have a guide. The GF is a few years older and infinitely wise in the ways of making it successfully past the big 2-9.  As my twenties disappear she tells me how this body part stops working and that one starts to creak, and you can’t do that like you used to and, so on and so on. Because I’m hardheaded, I’m slow to listen to her advice.

In my mind, my body is ageless, timeless, immortal. The normal rules of aging do not apply to me. And I’ll kick anyone in the face that dares to disagree with me. And because normal aging rules do not *cough* apply to me, I have, on occasion, continued to behave as I did at 22.  And at the end of those nights, the GF makes sure I have a small hamburger, 4 Advil and a big glass of water. (Gosh, I love her.)  Still, more often than not, on those cursed hungover mornings after, the GF turns to me with a smirk and says, “How old are you again?”

This past weekend, after (MY LAST, I SWEAR) brutal hangover after drinking mostly Sangria, followed by one JUST one LIT, I finally started to understand. My 28 year old body does not metabolize (ugh, I hate that word) alcohol the way that 22, 25 or even 27 year old Monica did.

I hate to report that the LIT and I have broken up. I’ve resigned myself to stick with the occasional glass of wine, or the single liquor drink. (oh how it pains me to say this)

But, there are just some things I’m not willing to put my body through. Killing my feet in high heels is one of them, ridiculous all day hangovers is another one.

Over the years, I’ve don’t a pretty good job of being cognizant of the language that I use when I refer to my relationship with money.  And over the years, money and I have developed a pretty decent relationship. While I’ve had an occasional slip up where I’ve run out of money before I’ve run out of month, I correct myself quickly.

That is, until now. For whatever reason, money and I are not on good terms. I get paid and it seems like days later, I’m poor again. I know that this is partly because I spend all my saving in San Francisco, and partly because I was unemployed for almost three months, but those aren’t the only reasons.

The real reasons are that it’s been a long time since I’ve had a real paycheck, and I suck at keeping a budget and I have high class taste and a pauper budget. Sad but totally true.

In graduate school, at the beginning of each semester you get a HUGE check and are tasked with budgeting in a way to make it last the entire semester.  This I could do.  And I always had a least a part-time job which allowed me to buy more beer. Life was awesome.

Before graduate school I lived with my mother.  For most of the time I had a well-paid full time job and a part-time job I did for fun (or for tequila money).    I bought groceries for the house and did most of the cooking in lieu of rent, and I had few expenses.  I even managed to save a bit. Life was awesome.

Before that, I shared a really cheap apartment with one of my former classmates, worked at an extremely low-paying job and hated my life. My only indulgence was my kickboxing membership because after working with 21 screaming first graders every day I needed to hit something every day. I often had to ask my mom to bail me out. That winter I had the flu and missed a week (unpaid) from school. It was a TOUGH year.

So full circle, I’m completely responsible for feeding, clothing, and providing shelter for myself.  Even though I’m splitting the household bills with the GF, taking care of myself is not an easy task. In fact, I f-ing suck at it.

I’m frustrated because I know that I’m making more money now than I’ve ever made in my life but it doesn’t feel like it.  And I’m frustrated because I thought I would be making a LOT more money after graduate school. (Screw the Recession!!)

In August when I got my first paycheck, my instinct was to pay all the bills that were past due over the summer. Bad idea. Basically because I forgot that I needed to pay the rent. D’Oh!  By the second paycheck, I was reeling. How in the world am I supposed to live off this?

So I decided to create a budget.

September was better. I managed not to get any overdraft fees on my checking accounts and I’m under my limits on my credit cards, which is awesome. However, sometimes I look at my budget or my bank accounts and it still says that I have like 2 dollars in the bank. This makes me frustrated and sad. Sometimes I just open up my pretty little excel spreadsheet and stare. Where does all my money go? What expenses can I delete? Do I really need Groceries? Gas? My storage unit?

I don’t want to get a second job at this point in my life. In the past I worked two jobs to stay busy. Now I want to spend my evenings working out, writing, or hanging with the GF, not bussing tables and filling water glasses.

To live the kind of life I want to live, I’m going to need to be resourceful about my revenue streams. And I’m going to have to give something(s) up. Again, balance is important. I need to be responsible with my finances, on the off chance that someone down the line cares about that sort of thing. On the other hand, I want to enjoy my life and my money. I refuse to be a slave to my debt.

So what to do? I probably won’t be able to pay off my credit cards or car loan as quickly as I want. I’m probably going to have to give myself a higher deductible on my car insurance. I may need a forbearance or deferment on my student loans. I’m going to have to store all my junk at home rather than rent a storage unit, and I’m going to have to be a more frugal grocery shopper.

Bottom line, I’m not going to let money rule my life.  We just gotta get back on good speaking terms.

How do you manage your monthly finances?

Yesterday, I got a real sundae from a real ice cream store and I came upon a real conundrum. I was so busy savoring the chocolate at the top of the sundae that I didn’t notice all the chocolate (and CARAMEL!!!) at the bottom of the sundae. By the time I got to the end of the sundae, I had lots of fudgy yumminess and not enough ice cream. I had to go into my stash of frozen whipped cream to finish off my dessert.

As I enjoyed the final bites I was reminded—Life is all about balance. And the ice cream to fudge ratio. Too much (or too little) of either can ruin a sundae.

I didn’t blog while I was away (I was too busy talking to folks and generally getting into trouble).

For the next few days, I’ll be decompressing and analyzing my experience and hopefully, I’ll find the time to share all the really cool stuff that I got to see and do. I’m also planning to cross-post on OrangePolitics, so that folks in Orange County that didn’t get to go on the trip get to hear my perspective on the Ann Arbor Inter-City Visit.

On a slightly different note, I am feeling a little overwhelmed with my life. The Ann Arbor trip took 3 complete days out of my life. Those were days that I missed class, and didn’t do any reading or research. Those three days left me completely tired and wanting to go to bed immediately. Those were three days that I half-checked my email and I am still not finished getting back to folks. (If you emailed me between Friday and today, I may not have gotten to you yet)

Bottom line, I’m in grad school, I work two jobs, and I blog 2-4 times a week. I have a lot going on, and I’m not willing to let anything go. Everything that I am currently involved in are things that are really important to me, and it’s worth my sanity to stay involved. I think I almost prefer it this way.

Maybe being slightly overwhelmed is going to be the standard for my life. Maybe this is one of the drawbacks of having varied interests. I do a little bit of everything, and I’m the only one who can see the pattern of how it all fits together.

When I think of all the things I have to do, I have to remember to take deep breaths and keep it together. I have to believe that everything is going to be ok. Otherwise, I may start crying and never stop. And I can’t do that since this coming weekend I’m going to a conference in Richmond where I will be blogging and networking and finding a job. (*sign. Why do I keep signing up for these things? I love it, that’s why.)

Two conferences two weeks in a row will leave me even more behind. And even more stressed. And even more crazy. I have research to do and papers to write and presentations to give! But I go to these conferences and I participate through blogging because it is important to me.

In Richmond, I’m going to pass out my resume, and someone is going to offer me my dream job. It is going to happen. The Universe and I have been talking again.

Happy Hump Day!