All in Life Notes

The Phoenix and the Monster: The Little Lady on Overcoming Jealousy and Rising from the Ashes

There’s a monster in my closet and it’s got some green-ass eyes. Sometimes jealousy climbs up my back like a scaly beast, digs its claws into my shoulders and wiggles in to get comfy. “Look at her hair,” it says, “Way prettier than yours.” Or he’ll tickle my ear with this little tidbit: “Check out her body! Bet you wish you looked like that.” But because writing is my passion, that green-eyed monster’s favourite nagging point is the successful writing of others.

A friend of mine, whose writing I respect immensely, recently launched a blog. Her writing is quality, her topics, interesting, and her perspectives, profound. For International Women’s Week, she wrote a post a day, while juggling work and school. The response she got to her blog overwhelmed and encouraged her. It overwhelmed me too, but I was not encouraged. I thought, damn, look at her out here succeeding, and my blog is as dead as three-week-old road kill.

God is not the X in this Equation

very time I decide I’m going to be quiet about something, the universe says, “You, be quiet? Girl, please!” So of course, despite the fact that I promised myself not to beat a dead horse by joining the debate about the lax gun laws that played a major part in the deaths of 20 innocent children and six teachers in the Newtown, Connecticut school shooting, something just had to wiggle its way into my line of sight and get me yapping about the topic.

This right here is what broke my vow of silence:

All I Want for Christmas is a Lifeline.

f you’ve ever held a conversation with an elderly person who is EXTREMELY hard of hearing, you’ll know it’s less of a conversation and more of a yelling match. This is what I get paid to do for eight hours at a time. Yes, I am the person on the other end of: “Help! I’ve fallen and I can’t get up?” By the end of the shift, I’m usually tired of my own voice and ready to rip my hair out. Can you blame me for wanting to get out of there as fast as possible?

So when the clock ticks over from 22:59 to 23:00, I am ready to kick down doors and run for the hills. Seven minutes: that’s how long I’ve got to get from the office to the bus stop. This is no seven minutes in heaven. It’s seven minutes of hellish anticipation and nervous jitters because missing that golden first bus means standing on a practically deserted street with darkened houses behind me and some horror movie bush ahead.