Dear Larkspur ...

To dull those fleeting thoughts of flight, I have delved into the world of homework and 40-page reading assignments. Yes, folks, Evvy's back in school. I dropped half my life savings on a few textbooks and I've sharpened all my mechanical pencils. Oh sure, I may look like the studious geek, but given the minutest of chances to fly the coop and to take on that dream job I've been chasing mercilessly in the last few months, I'm outta here!

In the meantime, I plod along, picking up only concepts of statistics and economics of the American public sector. Oh don't everyone invite me as a guest speaker to their house parties all at once!

The other thing plaguing my mind as of late is this desire to pack up and just rearrange my surroundings. I'm not talking about vacation, I'm not talking about some personal "finding myself" trip. This next move I hope will be a permanent one, because unlike my need for adventure in my decision to move to New York, this one will be for love and a promise at happiness.

Secondly, but certainly not less important: I started writing for a magazine called DRIVE. Got to interview a very funny and very saucy woman named Wendy Ip who's a singer/songwriter. She's got an excellent voice and a quicky nature about her, so I'll be one of the first to have had an exclusive interview with her. I guess I should have taken her somewhere nicer than a burger joint in Chelsea. The magazine is due out sometime in early fall and although my role in it seems to be small at the moment, I can't wait to see what happens.

Third: Is it possible for me to have a pre-mid-life crisis? I can't stop ogling foreign cars on the street and I have this incredible urge to just get up and leave this town and everything I've worked for in the past 8 years just for the chance to uncover some uptopia that may or may not reveal itself. Everything is annoying me lately and Sonata keeps looking at me with this quasi- sympathetic face. At least I'm not losing my hair. Don't you dare say it's PMS or I swear I'll knock your head off your flimsy shoulders! In the meantime, I'll just plod along and see what kind of trouble I can drum up. Same sh... stuff, different day.

Haven't been doing much of anything at home, besides play the part of the perfect housewife. With two additional bodies in my apartment, I am constantly astonished by the piles of dirty dishes in my sink, the mass of long hair shed in my bathtub drain and all over the bathroom floor, and the obstacle course of discarded clothes scattered across hall from the living room to my bedroom. Ah, but I complain too much. I have to admit it is nice to have people to go home to at night. Take the good with the bad, Evvy, and stop being such a nagging mother.

Sonata and I went out dancing the other night -- two chicks hitting the NYC night scene, dressed to kill and armed to the teeth with witty retorts in our come-hither breathy voices. Not really. Our entire dancing escape was a lesson in how to either run away from or fight with alcohol-impaired gents. Or were they sober? It was certainly hard to tell. As a rule, staring at a woman's breasts is not really an indication of much brain activity and grinding with a woman by grabbing her unsuspectingly from behind will usually reward a man with a nice red welt across his face. Rules don't have to be followed, of course. But oh do the consequences sting like an agitated wasp.

Sister is coming tomorrow and I haven't done a thing about my closet space to ready the place for the entrance and storage of her stuff. She never packs lightly. Even if she were going on a day trip to the beach, she'd still bring enough supplies to care for an entire army during a snowstorm. My sister, Swiss Army Girl. I just hope my little itty bitty car has enough room to take her and her baggage from the airport back to my apartment. Otherwise we'll have to hire a caravan of taxis to get the job done.

I had one emotion- and work-filled weekend and I'm just about ready to chuck it all and head out of this crazy city into some unknown territory, where the people are a little more laid back and where playing in the rain is something I can do every day without fear of clothing labels that warn, "Dry Clean Only." Oh well, next lifetime.

First let's deal with the subject on my mind most of the time: cars. I've been trolling around looking for a good used car for my sister (and for myself of course) so she can get around to her rotations when she comes next week. YIKES! Next week sure came fast. In addition to finding a car, I have to clear out half my closet, which is no small task for those of you who know me. At least I don't have any pressure to clean the joint up, like when my mother came over. Those giant grey dustballs under my bed and in the corners of my room can stay for now.

So back to the car situation. I went to my first auction last night. Got to look at a few autos with the help of my dearest friend, who knows more about cars than just how to drive them (well, that last part is questionable, really). Learned a little about axles, oil-dripping tailpipes, mileage and luxury cars with bullet holes in the sides. I found one car I absolutely loved, but the auctioneer merely laughed in utter contempt at our bid as the car rolled off the auction block. I walked home with a pounding headache, brought on by the way in which the autioneer spoke. My head nearly exploded trying to decipher the garble of words and numbers, "Heybidibeedodobee$5,500!$5,500! Biddlediddlefiddlefaddle$5,000!"

So now I've got an opportunity to check out a sporty car. It'll do wonders to my insurance rate, I'm sure. But hey! It's a SPORTS CAR! Besides, my sister ought to get used to driving one ... she'll have enough money in the not-so-distant future to have one herself, although I doubt she'd ever let me drive it.

Now Mom's back in her crib back in the midwest and I'm trying desperately to catch up on a weeks' worth of backlog here at work. The great thing about coming back today is preparing to leave again tomorrow ... for jury duty. For some reason, I thought I'd be exempt from this chore, having served a mere two and a half years ago. My prior experience had been GRAND JURY duty, meaning three straight weeks of handing out indictments for drug-related crimes. I think we indicted everyone. Just a bunch of overly-concerned citizens. One of my fellow jurors, upon hearing the charges and location of the drug bust volunteered smugly, "Hey! Isn't there a schoool within 500 yards of the B & B (buy and bust)?" Wham, another charge. Boy we we proud of ourselves that afternoon.

So here I go again ... my obligation as a citizen of our fair country. At least I don't have to drag my horn through the metal detectors at the courthouse. (Concert last weekend went beautifully by the way. Even though Mom snoozed right through the Bartok piano concerto, as I predicted.)

Since I started on my resume rampage, I've gone on one interview. I expected nothing, it being the standard by which to judge subsequent meetings. I was pratically hired on the spot. I couldn't help beaming all week. Back at home I carefully began to weigh the pros and cons of working for a national organization at its national headquarters, worrying about salary and wardrobe and the like. Then came the calls for other interviews. Companies I'd only dreamed of working for tried to contact me, but for positions in which I have virtually no expertise.

What is expertise anyway, a colleague asked me. Is it important for the learning experience and towards my ultimate goal? What the hell is my ultimate goal anyway?

All the questions and more ... on the next Evvy.

What used to pass for a semi-straggly cape of hair is now a disaster-stricken bird's nest. My hairbrush is now used to "shape" and not to simply rip out knots, as before. My nearest and dearest dipped his hands in girly, lavender- scented gel to teach me the finer aspects of styling. Barrettes, bands, scrungees ... oh my!

But, as most living things do, the hair is growing back. A mere month after the cutting, my tresses have already meandered from the jawline to the shoulders. It's now between the lengths considered stylish in this day and age. I caught sight of an Jackie Chan cop movie from the 70s and thought I was looking into a mirror! Oh indecision! Should I chop it back or let it go?

Gotta love the mini-dramas I create for myself.

I moved away to college, with a plan in my naive little mind - I was going to watch all the classics, all the cinematic gross-outs of the century and LOVE it. Mom would have to cry to herself, "Now why did I deprive my poor beloved children of such an experience?" The Shining was playing at the student center for $2 one cool autumn night. I went alone; a rite of passage of sorts. I almost didn't make it home. Couldn't get up off my seat at the theater, didn't want to head back to the dorm, where a long hallway to my room awaited me. Those twin girls, those bloodied twin red-heads, would be waiting for me there. Jack Nicholson was there, poised with an ax, ready to hack me into little pieces while I slept.

I never told Mom how much of an insomniac I've been since that experience, now well over 8 years ago. Every single bump in the night wakens me. Every "too quiet" spell creeps me. Wimp, I know. Last weekend, I got roped into seeing a ghost flick and now I have to recurring dream where all my teeth are wickedly crooked and loose. Mom just laughed at me and tried to turn it into something comical in trying to comfort me. She said that if the loose teeth fall out, it means that I will soon receive some unexpected money. I'd think that was a good idea, except that's what she says about stepping in dog shit too.

At least I managed to get some rest this past weekend. I will never again underestimate the power of 18-hour lounging again. My partner in crime and I sat around in our shorts and stinky t-shirts and watched television, played video games, and managed to stay mostly stationary the entire day. Or muscles began to succumb to atrophy by the end, I'm sure. Still, lounging is tiring - I'm surprisingly sore today. I wonder if there are any warm-up exercises for that sort of (non) activity.

What I SHOULD do is quit working behind a desk, whip out my horn and start playing in the subways, full-time. I could make a buck an hour! Although the fringe benefits, I'm sure, leave a little to be desired.

What does this mean for the disgruntled Evvy? Ah, I haven't abandoned the job search, not to worry. A little change like a bigger office isn't enough to deter me from my original plan. Still want a change in direction. I don't care if my future job requires me to share a 4'x4' cubicle so long as I can regain some sort of passion for my work. My former employer called me up to recruit my help for their upcoming benefit concert ... strictly as a volunteer, of course. I jumped at the opportunity -- I wish I could work for them again, but at this point in my financial life, they can't afford me. (What a snob I've become!)

And just when I developed a very specific dance to squeeze into my office chair without bruising every square inch of my legs on sharp desk and table corners. Just when I've learned that leaning back in my chair usually means hitting the wall behind me with my cranium. Just when I've started understanding the HR lady's schedule, so that when she's out to lunch I can access my files, which are housed in her office since I don't have the physical space in mine.

I betcha that's it! She got tired of having me burst into her office to retrieve things that belonged to me. Hey, at least I knock first. Yeah, and I notice that everytime I come in, she quickly closes a window on her desktop. Probably day trading or conducting some torrid online affair with a guy on lock up. Ah, maybe I'm too hard on her. Although I certainly can't think that someone noticed my discomfort in this office space in the past year. I should just be happy. Still, if I find that high-paying, secretary-providing, benefits up-the- whazoo job ... buh bye new office! hehe

I know that to be in the non-profit sector, a person's really got to sacrifice personal time and finances to do what he or she loves. It's never going to be a very lucrative field, but at least he or she will be inspired and happy. All this time I've been letting money cause this hesitation. I should just realize now that I'll never come into money, so might as well start getting used to it today! haha

So here I go ... here I throw myself to the mercy of the job-searching arena, to be fed to the ferocious lions of the various human resources departments. (Ooh, which reminds me, I'd better get a suit!)

Of course, there are other noticeably absent items from my life at the moment that weigh far more heavily on my heart and soul than just a piece of luggage containing all my ID cards and camera. To borrow a bit from a departed friend, "I'd lose a thousand bags, if he'd just come back home." I guess I've never dealt with having a friend leave me before. In the past, I've always been the leaver. I went away to school and left behind a few good buddies. My past relationships were ended because of me. Who would dare leave Evvy? I suppose I shouldn't be so whiny about this whole ordeal ... it wasn't as if I were owed large sums of money, or had made a resounding commitment to anyone. It is extremely rare, however, that a person of this caliber waltzes into my life, commands my trust and attention in a relatively short time, and then glides to the opposite end of the world.

All the more reason to hold the ones remaining within arm's length even tighter than before.

During my waking hours, I think of long hugs and Hello Kitties in bunny clothes. My dreams are strange. I see a bull, donned in a stiff cowboy hat, who answers by the name Ted. He's trapped in an enclosure of some sort, and is guarded by a menacing doorman, of all things. He moos for me to save him, to release him from his cardboard cage and to hold him close while I sleep. I'm coming Ted, if I can only shake this heavy fog holding my heart captive. If only I had a few more days. Or perhaps a few hours even. Oh, how dangerous those "what ifs" can be.

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