It’s been a hard week, and an interesting day. Besides some crazy work stuff, I’ve been stressing and agonizing all week over a situation in my personal life. Finally last night I made a decision and then carried it out. I felt so relieved! And then, this morning, I promptly woke up with a stress release migraine. Sadly this is how my brain works; I got a migraine the morning after exam period ended every semester in high school. Nice to know my love life is about as pleasant as an exam period, right?
Anyway, during this migraine I had the weirdest dream. I was standing outside, waiting for this kid I had a crush on in high school (name undisclosed in case anyone who knows us ever reads this) to walk by, and was trying to put on a sports bra. Yep, that’s it, the whole dream. Me struggling to put on a sports bra. I couldn’t do it!! My arms kept going in the wrong holes or getting twisted, and I was so confused and frustrated! And then I woke up. What on earth does it mean??? Other than maybe I need to go to the gym more often?? Haha.
Then because I had already planned to and because my muscles were still all tense from the migraine, I went and got a massage. And I had a very attractive male masseuse. Normally male masseuses are flamboyantly gay, big beefy men in their late 50’s, or tiny 12-year-old skater boys who smell like weed. Since none of these are my type of guy, I normally can play it cool with the “there’s-a-guy-rubbing-my-naked-back” thing. But this guy? Soooo cute!!!!! And straight. And nice. Pretty much instant crush-ville, . Which is not necessarily a problem, but when he’s massaging the tension out of your palms (sounds weird, but one of my favorite parts of full-body massages) and you’re thinking, “hmm, kind of wish you wanted to hold my hand in real life,” it’s a bit distracting. I’m already trying to decide if the cuteness is a reason to go back or a reason to stay away.
But anyway, the guy last night and the masseuse today made me think more about a list I’ve been mentally composing, the list of why my life is definitely NOT a romantic comedy. Don’t worry, this isn’t a list of complaints. I don’t really want to live in a romantic comedy, they seem unnecessarily melodramatic to me. But every so often, it’s funny to remember the difference between reality and what I’m tol should be my fantasy. So here it is, part of my list of how I know I’m not a romantic comedy heroine.
1. I don’t “meet cute”, I “meet awkward”. Take the male masseuse hottie. I met him with a pounding head, wearing scrubs and no make-up, and solely for the reason that I have very knotty rhomboids. Kind of awkward to have the first thing a guy knows about you be the state of your neck muscles. And take one of my most recent first dates. The guy walked up while I was texting. Unfortunate for that alone, but then, in an attempt to make myself not seem rude, I explained who and what I was texting. When my friend had been in town to visit me, I had tripped while we were walking down a street and fallen flat on my face. Well, on my way to meet this guy, I had walked down the SAME street and tripped AGAIN. So I was texting her to tell her that story. Which ended up being the same story I told him. Smooooooooth. The date ended up going well, but I’m pretty sure it doesn’t meet the romantic comedy scene criteria.
2. Related: I am living in the wrong places. In a romantic comedy, you’re supposed to live somewhere trendy, hip, and/or scenic—Los Angeles (the good parts) or New York (Manhattan and sometimes Brooklyn). I may have missed this memo. As a girl at my high school reunion said, “I moved to Detroit cause I wanted to corner the market on urban depressed areas!” And I said, “Hey, I live in Baltimore!!!” Baltimore is actually really growing on me, but let’s be honest…tv shows like The Wire are set here. Not movies starring Katherine Heigl. (yes, there was a movie with John Travolta in drag set here, but that is not trendy.) Also, in romantic comedies all the front and center AND background people are unnaturally gorgeous and/or wholesome looking. The kids I work with are friggin’ adorable, and my friends of course are lovely, but the majority of the guys I pass on the street would not make the extra call-back list for most romantic comedies.
3. My wardrobe is all wrong. You know I love giving myself a good shopping montage, but let’s face it, when was the last time a movie character looked at her closet and said, “Mmm, I think I need more khakis”? The movie version of shopping is a cute boutique and bright trendy sexy things. My version is usually Old Navy and sweaters, which, in a shocking development, I wear more than once. And sorry to Manolo Blahnik, but the most expensive pair of shoes I’ve ever bought were my Danskos.
4. Related to the shopping comment, I run too many errands. One of the things I’ve always liked about Seinfeld (other than the pure animal magnetism of Jason Alexander….ha!!) was that it showed the characters doing everyday, normal people things, like wandering a shopping mall parking garage or going to the drugstore. You never see romantic comedy heroines wandering a Giant or making sure to pick up some cat litter on the way home. I know it’s not exciting, but it does have to happen, and frankly I would appreciate it if the movies glamorized it every now and again.
5. Last but not least, and I take this one kind of personally, taking off your glasses and straightening your hair does not make a crazy surge of hotness happen. As a naturally curly-haired girl who couldn’t wear contacts until she was 21, I was always very offended by the makeover montage. Want your longlost granddaughter to look like a suitable princess? Contacts and a hair-straightener!! (The Princess Diaries). Need to convince Freddie Prinze Jr you can be a prom queen? You guessed it, contacts! (She’s All That). I don’t wear my glasses very often, but not because I think they’re unattractive, more because I have poor depth-perception and tend to knock them against doorways (true story). And I only take the really long amount of time to straighten my hair about 50% of the time, because, sorry Hollywood, but I like my curls. If all it took to rope Harrison Ford AND Greg Kinnear (Sabrina) was to do these two things, it would have happened to me many years ago, and I am kind of resentful of the myth.
I actually have more items, but I’ll save them. After a week like mine, it’s hard to not wish my life was more Hollywood script-writer-approved, but in general, I think it’s pretty good. Hope you all are happy with your own, and happy Sunday!!
Much love.
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
(Not Even Getting to the Point of) Kissing Frogs
Update from dating disaster land!!!
So I've mentioned I'm re-trying online dating. Tonight, I actually went on a date from it. Or tried to. Let me explain.
This guy, G, messaged me a few weeks ago with an email that started by saying "I'm finding it hard to believe you're still single." I'm susceptible to this kind of flattery, and he looked really cute, so I figured we could talk. We had a few messages back and forth, and he seemed fine--he had some trouble spelling, which is a pet peeve for me, and it wasn't exactly fireworks in written form (no Nicholas Sparks-worthy letters here), but hey, what do you expect? My first kind of "errrrmm" came when he asked from my phone number so he could text me, and I had to ask him what his name was--it just seemed weird to give my number to someone who hadn't even asked for my name. Well, we exchanged names and then numbers, and we texted for a while.
First thing: texting sucks. Ok, I love texting, especially when I'm drinking (shout-out to my drunk-text-buddy Laurel!!), but it is no way to get to know somebody. And when we're talking about "wooing" somebody, texting seems kind of lazy. If you want to impress us, guys, pick up the phone.
But so anyway, he asks me out and I say yes. He suggests the time and the place and we confirm it several times. Tonight, at 7, at a bar in downtown. At 6:30, he texts me and says, "I'll be running 15 minutes late." This was kind of annoying, but since he'd given me some notice, I text back, "ok, see you at 7:15!" He texts back, "Ok cool."
Cut to 7:05. I've showered, primped, and am about 5 minutes away from the bar. I get a text from G: "Let's make it 7:30. I'm leaving my house now."
It's a good thing I'm driving and can't text back right away, cause my first compositions were pretty passive aggressive and annoyed. I pull over to text my friends with indignation and let out some steam. At this point, G calls me. His explanation: "I got out of work late, then you know, I had to like take a shower. Normally I'm never late, but like I said I got out of work late. I apologize, where are you?"
I tell him I was there already. His response: "Oh, how's parking? It can be crazy."
Let's recap here. One half-hearted apology. Despite getting really frustrated, I said ok relatively pleasantly, and signed off.
At that point, all I wanted was to be curled up in my pjs on the couch watching Mythbusters. Yes, I am aware that some of the reason I'm single is that my default mode is curling up on the couch and watching Mythbusters: if there is a choice, I tend towards solitude and lumpitude rather than going out to meet new people. On the other hand, I thought about the two people I found out today had gotten engaged (Mazel Tov guys!) and about how truly ready I am to have my special guy be curled up WITH ME on a couch to watch Mythbusters. (Sidenote, watching Mythbusters is not a deal breaker for dating me, but it is helpful.) And so I stayed.
My friend calls me while I'm waiting and I get to express myself. She gives me some suggestions of how to tell him I'm feeling disrespected and annoyed without ruining the date. Then G texts that he is parking, and I head out of my car to the restaurant to meet him.
He walks up and my view of him is instantly more positive. Call me shallow, but oooh-ee, but he's a good-looking man! To quote Bridesmaids, I wanted to climb him like a tree. After a suitable dating period, of course. Besides, he gives me a hug and another apology so I tell myself he is worth a second chance.
The waiter leads us to a table. It's a nice restaurant, by the way. On the way to sit down, G asks me if I lived in the city. Seeing as he's asked this twice in our texts already, I'm a bit confused, but I answer. We sit down and look at the menu briefly. He suggests the hummus and tells me where on the menu drinks were located. The waiter comes to pour us some ice water, and G asks the waiter where the men's room was. The waiter tells him, and G stands up, without saying a word to me, and walks away.
Five minutes later, the waiter comes back. He introduces himself and says that when G comes back, he'll come take our drinks orders.
Five minutes later, he checks in again. No G.
Five minutes later, he asks me if I want a drink while I wait. You guessed it, still no G.
Five minutes later, I'm done. I have no idea what was going on in that bathroom. If it was taking that long (20 minutes), I probably didn't want to be around when it was done. And by now I am so mad I know that even if G came back, I'll be too riled up to give him a decent chance and the date would be a disaster. Ok, MORE of a disaster. I beckon the waiter over. "Look," I tell him, trying not to cry with embarrassment and frustration. "This guy was 45 minutes later and now he's been in the bathroom for 20 minutes. I don't know what's going on, but I think I'm just going to leave."
"Ok," the waiter says. "Well, you take that drink downstairs to the bar, that one's on me."
"Thank you," I reply, "but I just want to go home. Thank you again for being so nice."
And I run away. Back down the stairs, down the street, into my car, and all the way back to my near-suburb home.
Look, I know I'm picky. I know sometimes I don't give guys enough of a chance. And I'm trying really hard to change that about myself. But, seriously? SERIOUSLY???? You're super late, then you immediately abandon me, and you show no realization of how this is not ok? Dealbreaker, dealbreaker, dealbreaker. Especially since it was a first date. Dude, first dates are for IMPRESSING your date, not showing them how very little you are actually interested in spending time with them.
It's called respect. It's called courtesy. It's called consideration. It's called common sense, for pete's sake. I cannot tell you how ready I am to be in a romantic relationship again, but I refuse to be treated like that. No matter how hot you are (moment of silence for the hotness that has been lost....sigh....). Who on earth has this guy been out with that has put up with this????
So, that was my date. I haven't heard from G yet--I have no idea what to say if I do!! But hey, you know, it still wasn't the worst date I've been on! Lol. And I made it home in time to watch Mythbusters. Thank heavens for small favors.
Hope your nights were more productive :) Thanks for letting me rant, and much love.
So I've mentioned I'm re-trying online dating. Tonight, I actually went on a date from it. Or tried to. Let me explain.
This guy, G, messaged me a few weeks ago with an email that started by saying "I'm finding it hard to believe you're still single." I'm susceptible to this kind of flattery, and he looked really cute, so I figured we could talk. We had a few messages back and forth, and he seemed fine--he had some trouble spelling, which is a pet peeve for me, and it wasn't exactly fireworks in written form (no Nicholas Sparks-worthy letters here), but hey, what do you expect? My first kind of "errrrmm" came when he asked from my phone number so he could text me, and I had to ask him what his name was--it just seemed weird to give my number to someone who hadn't even asked for my name. Well, we exchanged names and then numbers, and we texted for a while.
First thing: texting sucks. Ok, I love texting, especially when I'm drinking (shout-out to my drunk-text-buddy Laurel!!), but it is no way to get to know somebody. And when we're talking about "wooing" somebody, texting seems kind of lazy. If you want to impress us, guys, pick up the phone.
But so anyway, he asks me out and I say yes. He suggests the time and the place and we confirm it several times. Tonight, at 7, at a bar in downtown. At 6:30, he texts me and says, "I'll be running 15 minutes late." This was kind of annoying, but since he'd given me some notice, I text back, "ok, see you at 7:15!" He texts back, "Ok cool."
Cut to 7:05. I've showered, primped, and am about 5 minutes away from the bar. I get a text from G: "Let's make it 7:30. I'm leaving my house now."
It's a good thing I'm driving and can't text back right away, cause my first compositions were pretty passive aggressive and annoyed. I pull over to text my friends with indignation and let out some steam. At this point, G calls me. His explanation: "I got out of work late, then you know, I had to like take a shower. Normally I'm never late, but like I said I got out of work late. I apologize, where are you?"
I tell him I was there already. His response: "Oh, how's parking? It can be crazy."
Let's recap here. One half-hearted apology. Despite getting really frustrated, I said ok relatively pleasantly, and signed off.
At that point, all I wanted was to be curled up in my pjs on the couch watching Mythbusters. Yes, I am aware that some of the reason I'm single is that my default mode is curling up on the couch and watching Mythbusters: if there is a choice, I tend towards solitude and lumpitude rather than going out to meet new people. On the other hand, I thought about the two people I found out today had gotten engaged (Mazel Tov guys!) and about how truly ready I am to have my special guy be curled up WITH ME on a couch to watch Mythbusters. (Sidenote, watching Mythbusters is not a deal breaker for dating me, but it is helpful.) And so I stayed.
My friend calls me while I'm waiting and I get to express myself. She gives me some suggestions of how to tell him I'm feeling disrespected and annoyed without ruining the date. Then G texts that he is parking, and I head out of my car to the restaurant to meet him.
He walks up and my view of him is instantly more positive. Call me shallow, but oooh-ee, but he's a good-looking man! To quote Bridesmaids, I wanted to climb him like a tree. After a suitable dating period, of course. Besides, he gives me a hug and another apology so I tell myself he is worth a second chance.
The waiter leads us to a table. It's a nice restaurant, by the way. On the way to sit down, G asks me if I lived in the city. Seeing as he's asked this twice in our texts already, I'm a bit confused, but I answer. We sit down and look at the menu briefly. He suggests the hummus and tells me where on the menu drinks were located. The waiter comes to pour us some ice water, and G asks the waiter where the men's room was. The waiter tells him, and G stands up, without saying a word to me, and walks away.
Five minutes later, the waiter comes back. He introduces himself and says that when G comes back, he'll come take our drinks orders.
Five minutes later, he checks in again. No G.
Five minutes later, he asks me if I want a drink while I wait. You guessed it, still no G.
Five minutes later, I'm done. I have no idea what was going on in that bathroom. If it was taking that long (20 minutes), I probably didn't want to be around when it was done. And by now I am so mad I know that even if G came back, I'll be too riled up to give him a decent chance and the date would be a disaster. Ok, MORE of a disaster. I beckon the waiter over. "Look," I tell him, trying not to cry with embarrassment and frustration. "This guy was 45 minutes later and now he's been in the bathroom for 20 minutes. I don't know what's going on, but I think I'm just going to leave."
"Ok," the waiter says. "Well, you take that drink downstairs to the bar, that one's on me."
"Thank you," I reply, "but I just want to go home. Thank you again for being so nice."
And I run away. Back down the stairs, down the street, into my car, and all the way back to my near-suburb home.
Look, I know I'm picky. I know sometimes I don't give guys enough of a chance. And I'm trying really hard to change that about myself. But, seriously? SERIOUSLY???? You're super late, then you immediately abandon me, and you show no realization of how this is not ok? Dealbreaker, dealbreaker, dealbreaker. Especially since it was a first date. Dude, first dates are for IMPRESSING your date, not showing them how very little you are actually interested in spending time with them.
It's called respect. It's called courtesy. It's called consideration. It's called common sense, for pete's sake. I cannot tell you how ready I am to be in a romantic relationship again, but I refuse to be treated like that. No matter how hot you are (moment of silence for the hotness that has been lost....sigh....). Who on earth has this guy been out with that has put up with this????
So, that was my date. I haven't heard from G yet--I have no idea what to say if I do!! But hey, you know, it still wasn't the worst date I've been on! Lol. And I made it home in time to watch Mythbusters. Thank heavens for small favors.
Hope your nights were more productive :) Thanks for letting me rant, and much love.
Monday, October 31, 2011
Clearly I haven't had enough candy...
It's Halloween and I'm not spazzed out of my mind on sugar. This demands a lifestyle reevaluation, I think.
So anyway, this weekend in the airport I was looking for a new book to read. I picked up one called the Happiness Project. When I read the back, it told me it was about a woman who realized she had “everything” but was still not happy. And so she set out to spend a year working on understanding why that was and how she could change it.
I didn’t buy it—I suspected I’d have the same trouble with it I did with Eat Pray Love, which was that by about page 200 I wanted to throw the book at Elizabeth Gilbert and scream, “STOP THINKING ABOUT YOUR FRIGGIN’ SELF!!! GET A FRIGGIN’ LIFE!!!” That was about the page when she spent a paragraph describing how her new lover described how she was during their first time having sex. In the first place, EWWWW. In the second place, I’m all for self-empowerment and self-discovery, and clearly I don’t have a leg to stand on when it comes to the public displays of navel-gazing, but it all does make me really uncomfortable. I often think we have way too much time to think. And to then get so wrapped up in existential stuff that we lose track of all sense of perspective.
Don’t worry, I’m not complaining about having time to think. Being able to sit alone in my comfortable living room and work through existential philosophical thoughts in my blog or my fiction (which who knows, someone may someday get to see) is one of my favorite things. I just worry that having all this luxury of contemplation of the higher plane can have negative consequences—namely, the forgetting of the fact that it is luxury.
According to Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, humans are incapable of worrying about things like philosophy until they have their basic requirements for survival met—air, water, food, shelter. If this is true, and I feel it is in at least some ways, then those of us who are around to worry about whether or not we are being our “best selves” or “living our best truths” or whatever else self-help will tell you to fixate on are already very lucky. Take the author of the Happiness Project. She was an employed married mother living above the poverty line. Again, I didn’t read the book, so I won’t use her as an example, but she represents many of the people we interact with everyday. We are fundamentally lucky people.
I thought of this again today at work. I run three art classes a week to work on fine motor skills. Today in one of them I was helping a 12-year-old boy named R. R has very severe quadriplegic cerebral palsy. He can’t talk or control his bladder. He has very low muscle tone—if you support his body weight in upright he can bring his legs forward to walk, but he cannot do anything as simple as sit up independently. His arm movements typically look like flails, even when they are voluntary, which they aren’t, always. He needs someone to do basically everything for him. The extra sad part is, he is aware. He’s very smart—he’s got an intellectually functioning brain in a physically dysfunctional body.
--Side note—I always really wish I could spend some time in the brain of each one of my kids—how do they see the world? What does life seem like to them? Some of them aren’t totally aware, so it’d be interesting to see what they did process—I’d be fascinated to feel what sensory defensiveness feels like. Or if they are “with it,” what kind of emotions do they have? To what extent are they bitter, or happy, or resigned? I mean, heck, I’d like time in ANYONE’s brain, everyone’s so different, but it’s my students who I really wish I had the chance to see. Anyhoo, back to the main point—
So R loves to paint. Thinking of him, I’d organized a craft where we would fingerpaint paper plates and cut construction paper legs to make a Halloween spider (it was really cute, trust me). One of the classroom aides held R’s plate for him so he wouldn’t knock it away, and I held his hand so he could bring it to the paper. My God, you guys. If you could have seen him. He was so focused. The look of intent on his face as he fought to keep his arm from flailing, the determination and patience he had to try to move his hand in the way he wanted to make his marks on his paper—that kind of moment is both uplifting and haunting. How, I wondered as I tried to strike the balance between holding him steady and holding him back, could I—so far up on Maslow’s hierarchy—watch him paint and then walk away and start wondering how I could make myself “happier?”
It’d be nice, wouldn’t it? If gratitude was the sole key to happiness. If all we had to do to be completely fulfilled was to remember what we could have, or not have, if listing all the ways we were blessed automatically made us complete. But it doesn’t work that way. For one thing, it is almost impossible to make that feeling last. When that woman almost hit me by cutting me off in traffic and making me miss a light (grrr commuting), do you think I thought, oh, that’s fine, my hands work well enough for me to drive, I can afford to buy gas, and I’m at peace? Hell no. I thought, and said, cause I talk to myself in the car, GodDAMMIT this is annoying, people SUCK, I want to go home, etc etc. Maybe I’m just a whiner, and I know I have some road rage issues, but I don’t think most of us find it possible to walk around our lives and react to every annoyance with a calm sense of gratitude for what we’re NOT dealing with. For another thing, we are simply programmed to want more. Our brains are capable of complicated thoughts and the drive to go further, to do more, to know more, etc etc, is innate. It’s a fundamental piece of human nature to not just rest on what is but to wonder—and work towards—what could be.
So I guess I feel that books like the Happiness Project are just a natural extension of what human nature can be when we’re fundamentally blessed. I just think that, as the author very well may say, a huge part of “happiness” is remembering those blessings. And despite the individualistic bent of our culture (using this line of thought, one could argue Jersey Shore is a natural extension of human nature, and isn’t THAT a terrifying concept), I don’t think that navel-gazing is equivalent to happiness. I don’t think it’s all about self, in fact, when we focus too much on our own selves, it’s a bad thing. It’s so easy to lose perspective, but it’s so important not to.
Ok, preaching over. Hope your Monday made you happy! Candy helps with that... Lol. Much love.
So anyway, this weekend in the airport I was looking for a new book to read. I picked up one called the Happiness Project. When I read the back, it told me it was about a woman who realized she had “everything” but was still not happy. And so she set out to spend a year working on understanding why that was and how she could change it.
I didn’t buy it—I suspected I’d have the same trouble with it I did with Eat Pray Love, which was that by about page 200 I wanted to throw the book at Elizabeth Gilbert and scream, “STOP THINKING ABOUT YOUR FRIGGIN’ SELF!!! GET A FRIGGIN’ LIFE!!!” That was about the page when she spent a paragraph describing how her new lover described how she was during their first time having sex. In the first place, EWWWW. In the second place, I’m all for self-empowerment and self-discovery, and clearly I don’t have a leg to stand on when it comes to the public displays of navel-gazing, but it all does make me really uncomfortable. I often think we have way too much time to think. And to then get so wrapped up in existential stuff that we lose track of all sense of perspective.
Don’t worry, I’m not complaining about having time to think. Being able to sit alone in my comfortable living room and work through existential philosophical thoughts in my blog or my fiction (which who knows, someone may someday get to see) is one of my favorite things. I just worry that having all this luxury of contemplation of the higher plane can have negative consequences—namely, the forgetting of the fact that it is luxury.
According to Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, humans are incapable of worrying about things like philosophy until they have their basic requirements for survival met—air, water, food, shelter. If this is true, and I feel it is in at least some ways, then those of us who are around to worry about whether or not we are being our “best selves” or “living our best truths” or whatever else self-help will tell you to fixate on are already very lucky. Take the author of the Happiness Project. She was an employed married mother living above the poverty line. Again, I didn’t read the book, so I won’t use her as an example, but she represents many of the people we interact with everyday. We are fundamentally lucky people.
I thought of this again today at work. I run three art classes a week to work on fine motor skills. Today in one of them I was helping a 12-year-old boy named R. R has very severe quadriplegic cerebral palsy. He can’t talk or control his bladder. He has very low muscle tone—if you support his body weight in upright he can bring his legs forward to walk, but he cannot do anything as simple as sit up independently. His arm movements typically look like flails, even when they are voluntary, which they aren’t, always. He needs someone to do basically everything for him. The extra sad part is, he is aware. He’s very smart—he’s got an intellectually functioning brain in a physically dysfunctional body.
--Side note—I always really wish I could spend some time in the brain of each one of my kids—how do they see the world? What does life seem like to them? Some of them aren’t totally aware, so it’d be interesting to see what they did process—I’d be fascinated to feel what sensory defensiveness feels like. Or if they are “with it,” what kind of emotions do they have? To what extent are they bitter, or happy, or resigned? I mean, heck, I’d like time in ANYONE’s brain, everyone’s so different, but it’s my students who I really wish I had the chance to see. Anyhoo, back to the main point—
So R loves to paint. Thinking of him, I’d organized a craft where we would fingerpaint paper plates and cut construction paper legs to make a Halloween spider (it was really cute, trust me). One of the classroom aides held R’s plate for him so he wouldn’t knock it away, and I held his hand so he could bring it to the paper. My God, you guys. If you could have seen him. He was so focused. The look of intent on his face as he fought to keep his arm from flailing, the determination and patience he had to try to move his hand in the way he wanted to make his marks on his paper—that kind of moment is both uplifting and haunting. How, I wondered as I tried to strike the balance between holding him steady and holding him back, could I—so far up on Maslow’s hierarchy—watch him paint and then walk away and start wondering how I could make myself “happier?”
It’d be nice, wouldn’t it? If gratitude was the sole key to happiness. If all we had to do to be completely fulfilled was to remember what we could have, or not have, if listing all the ways we were blessed automatically made us complete. But it doesn’t work that way. For one thing, it is almost impossible to make that feeling last. When that woman almost hit me by cutting me off in traffic and making me miss a light (grrr commuting), do you think I thought, oh, that’s fine, my hands work well enough for me to drive, I can afford to buy gas, and I’m at peace? Hell no. I thought, and said, cause I talk to myself in the car, GodDAMMIT this is annoying, people SUCK, I want to go home, etc etc. Maybe I’m just a whiner, and I know I have some road rage issues, but I don’t think most of us find it possible to walk around our lives and react to every annoyance with a calm sense of gratitude for what we’re NOT dealing with. For another thing, we are simply programmed to want more. Our brains are capable of complicated thoughts and the drive to go further, to do more, to know more, etc etc, is innate. It’s a fundamental piece of human nature to not just rest on what is but to wonder—and work towards—what could be.
So I guess I feel that books like the Happiness Project are just a natural extension of what human nature can be when we’re fundamentally blessed. I just think that, as the author very well may say, a huge part of “happiness” is remembering those blessings. And despite the individualistic bent of our culture (using this line of thought, one could argue Jersey Shore is a natural extension of human nature, and isn’t THAT a terrifying concept), I don’t think that navel-gazing is equivalent to happiness. I don’t think it’s all about self, in fact, when we focus too much on our own selves, it’s a bad thing. It’s so easy to lose perspective, but it’s so important not to.
Ok, preaching over. Hope your Monday made you happy! Candy helps with that... Lol. Much love.
Monday, October 24, 2011
Deep Thoughts from Driving
So I’ve been thinking a lot about human nature….
No, seriously. And specifically, about commuting and animal rights.
I swear they’re related.
I spend a lot of time in my car—5 hours alone yesterday, which is where I had time to mentally blog. I drive about 45 minutes each way for my work commute. This is nothing compared to what a lot of people do (I have one friend who drives over an hour each way) but it’s city driving, and I find it very stressful. Put a ton of people in giant metal vehicles in streets not really designed for that kind of volume (and, I swear, outfitted with streetlights preset to all go off at the precisely wrong moment), tell them they have to go somewhere they don’t really want to (aka work) at a very certain time which happens to be the exact same time everyone else needs to go somewhere right next door to them, and it gets ugly. I find that as a rule, when under stress, commuters regress to their lowest possible selves. That car trying to merge simply can’t be allowed in front of you, because it will slow you down, and that is just unbearable. The people on the other side of the intersection can wait and miss their turn because it is much more important that you go on ahead, despite the fact that you can clearly see you won’t make it all the way out of the intersection before the light changes. I had a coworker tell me she followed me home the previous day and I pre-emptively apologized in case I’d done something bitchy, since commuting brings out the worst in me. On the road, when you feel so invulnerable in your big vehicle and where everyone else becomes an impersonal “it” in another car in your way, it’s shockingly easy to be a narcissistic, impatient scrooge.
I worry that, when human beings get challenged, we tend to react with our lower selves. The part of us that is self above all others, and “winning” (no matter how it’s defined—in commuting, as getting through an intersection or to work on time) over kindness.
The story about the Chinese toddler that’s been in the news feeds this worry. I haven’t watched the video (and yes, if you have, I’m judging…why the hell does anyone need to watch a child be fatally injured? What kind of sick voyeurism is that? I don’t even believe it needs to be publically available) but I’ve read about it. The people walking by on the street—the “passer-by’s”—either didn’t notice what was happening or in that second decided something else was more important than stopping to help. Both options have pretty horrible implications—either way, it seems, it’s a case of complete and total self-absorption. And it’s terrifying.
And I see the same thing when I think about how we treat animals. The news story about the wild animals hunted down in Ohio was deeply disturbing. (Maybe I should just stop watching the news…. ) Obviously, innocent people needed to be protected. But let’s be honest here—in the battle of man vs animal, we have decisively won. It’s not even a contest. Sure, your random person/statistic may get stung by a bee or bitten by a shark, but in reaction to the ancient feelings of vulnerability, we have developed weapons that have rendered us completely in control of the animal world. So now it’s become a question of how we use our power. And more often than not we use it thoughtlessly or cruelly.
Think about it. The man who owned the animals released them to their certain death rather than simply leave them in their cages while he took his own life. The majority of people tracking down the animals in Ohio grabbed shotguns instead of tranquilizer guns.
And it is true on a more general level as well. We have achieved mastery over the animal kingdom, and we’re very clearly dictators. The main school of thought is “control” rather than “coexistence.” I mean, it’s fine if there are wild animals in a box in the zoo, or if dangerous creatures live on a refuge in the middle of a country on the other side of the world. But if comes closer to home, our priorities are the priorty, with little concern for animal environments or lives.
Don’t get me wrong. We know how much I love me a good shopping mall that most likely is built in the middle of what used to be an open field with lots of cute cuddlies wandering through it. And I am no where near a vegetarian. I’m not trying to be a hypocrite, and I’m not sitting here saying human endeavors need to take a backseat to animals’. I’m just saying that, while survival of the fittest is just a dandy concept, guess what, we’ve survived. So why can’t we focus on other dandy concepts like, oh, “conscience” or “compassion.” Since we have the upper hand, we ought not to abuse it by being thoughtless or cruel to those creatures we control.
The way we treat the majority of our animals bred for food is appalling. The idea that we test cosmetics on animals is horrendous—let’s keep a monkey in a cage and make sure it doesn’t go blind so that we know our mascara will really make our lashes look voluminous. The sheer number of domestic animals abandoned or abused on a daily basis should make any being with a brain sick to their stomach. And yet, this stuff happens. Partly because we have some pretty big issues that take up more of our allotted national consciousness, true. But also because there are no consequences. Because we are invulnerable, and they are impersonal. Because even if we’re not out there scaling trees to avoid creatures with larger and stronger bodies, we’re still at war—now, having enough land and food for our species is the battle we’re trying to win, and apparently, kindness can be damned.
I know, my heart is bleeding its liberal blood all over the place. So I’ll stop. I just think it’s worth thinking about. I don’t think human nature is inherently evil, and again, there are definitely bigger issues to worry about. But we reveal ourselves most truly when we feel we are in power, and there are places where we just fall short. It never hurts to be kinder than you actually have to be, and it’s never a bad thing to show mercy and compassion to the beings sharing our space, especially when they’re weaker than us.
So let’s end where we began—me!! If you take nothing else from this block take this message—when you see me driving next to you, let me merge into your lane. It’ll make us all much happier ☺
Much love!
No, seriously. And specifically, about commuting and animal rights.
I swear they’re related.
I spend a lot of time in my car—5 hours alone yesterday, which is where I had time to mentally blog. I drive about 45 minutes each way for my work commute. This is nothing compared to what a lot of people do (I have one friend who drives over an hour each way) but it’s city driving, and I find it very stressful. Put a ton of people in giant metal vehicles in streets not really designed for that kind of volume (and, I swear, outfitted with streetlights preset to all go off at the precisely wrong moment), tell them they have to go somewhere they don’t really want to (aka work) at a very certain time which happens to be the exact same time everyone else needs to go somewhere right next door to them, and it gets ugly. I find that as a rule, when under stress, commuters regress to their lowest possible selves. That car trying to merge simply can’t be allowed in front of you, because it will slow you down, and that is just unbearable. The people on the other side of the intersection can wait and miss their turn because it is much more important that you go on ahead, despite the fact that you can clearly see you won’t make it all the way out of the intersection before the light changes. I had a coworker tell me she followed me home the previous day and I pre-emptively apologized in case I’d done something bitchy, since commuting brings out the worst in me. On the road, when you feel so invulnerable in your big vehicle and where everyone else becomes an impersonal “it” in another car in your way, it’s shockingly easy to be a narcissistic, impatient scrooge.
I worry that, when human beings get challenged, we tend to react with our lower selves. The part of us that is self above all others, and “winning” (no matter how it’s defined—in commuting, as getting through an intersection or to work on time) over kindness.
The story about the Chinese toddler that’s been in the news feeds this worry. I haven’t watched the video (and yes, if you have, I’m judging…why the hell does anyone need to watch a child be fatally injured? What kind of sick voyeurism is that? I don’t even believe it needs to be publically available) but I’ve read about it. The people walking by on the street—the “passer-by’s”—either didn’t notice what was happening or in that second decided something else was more important than stopping to help. Both options have pretty horrible implications—either way, it seems, it’s a case of complete and total self-absorption. And it’s terrifying.
And I see the same thing when I think about how we treat animals. The news story about the wild animals hunted down in Ohio was deeply disturbing. (Maybe I should just stop watching the news…. ) Obviously, innocent people needed to be protected. But let’s be honest here—in the battle of man vs animal, we have decisively won. It’s not even a contest. Sure, your random person/statistic may get stung by a bee or bitten by a shark, but in reaction to the ancient feelings of vulnerability, we have developed weapons that have rendered us completely in control of the animal world. So now it’s become a question of how we use our power. And more often than not we use it thoughtlessly or cruelly.
Think about it. The man who owned the animals released them to their certain death rather than simply leave them in their cages while he took his own life. The majority of people tracking down the animals in Ohio grabbed shotguns instead of tranquilizer guns.
And it is true on a more general level as well. We have achieved mastery over the animal kingdom, and we’re very clearly dictators. The main school of thought is “control” rather than “coexistence.” I mean, it’s fine if there are wild animals in a box in the zoo, or if dangerous creatures live on a refuge in the middle of a country on the other side of the world. But if comes closer to home, our priorities are the priorty, with little concern for animal environments or lives.
Don’t get me wrong. We know how much I love me a good shopping mall that most likely is built in the middle of what used to be an open field with lots of cute cuddlies wandering through it. And I am no where near a vegetarian. I’m not trying to be a hypocrite, and I’m not sitting here saying human endeavors need to take a backseat to animals’. I’m just saying that, while survival of the fittest is just a dandy concept, guess what, we’ve survived. So why can’t we focus on other dandy concepts like, oh, “conscience” or “compassion.” Since we have the upper hand, we ought not to abuse it by being thoughtless or cruel to those creatures we control.
The way we treat the majority of our animals bred for food is appalling. The idea that we test cosmetics on animals is horrendous—let’s keep a monkey in a cage and make sure it doesn’t go blind so that we know our mascara will really make our lashes look voluminous. The sheer number of domestic animals abandoned or abused on a daily basis should make any being with a brain sick to their stomach. And yet, this stuff happens. Partly because we have some pretty big issues that take up more of our allotted national consciousness, true. But also because there are no consequences. Because we are invulnerable, and they are impersonal. Because even if we’re not out there scaling trees to avoid creatures with larger and stronger bodies, we’re still at war—now, having enough land and food for our species is the battle we’re trying to win, and apparently, kindness can be damned.
I know, my heart is bleeding its liberal blood all over the place. So I’ll stop. I just think it’s worth thinking about. I don’t think human nature is inherently evil, and again, there are definitely bigger issues to worry about. But we reveal ourselves most truly when we feel we are in power, and there are places where we just fall short. It never hurts to be kinder than you actually have to be, and it’s never a bad thing to show mercy and compassion to the beings sharing our space, especially when they’re weaker than us.
So let’s end where we began—me!! If you take nothing else from this block take this message—when you see me driving next to you, let me merge into your lane. It’ll make us all much happier ☺
Much love!
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Least Complicated: 10-Year-Reunion
This weekend I went to my ten-year high school reunion.
Pause. Holy crap, I am old.
Ok, we’re back. Anyway, so, yes, it was my ten-year reunion. And it was…anticlimactic. In a really good way.
Let me explain. For months I’d been getting encouraging invitations and reminders from the wonderful classmates organizing the party, and one of my best friends, Xenia, had been mentioning it casually to try to get me to say I was going. And for months, I resisted all these invitations.
Why? Not to be high maintenance, but because I was really REALLY scared to go.
I attended the same school from first to twelfth grade, and for much of the latter part of that time period I was miserable. From about sixth grade on (the Awkward Growth Spurt and then the prolonged Recovery Period), I felt like a social leper, so lonely and isolated I could barely stand it. I’ve come to realize this is much more of a universal experience than I could have believed when I was going through it, and there are positives to not having high school be the best time of your life. For one, at least I know I didn’t peak then! And for another, the real friendships that were created and have lasted since high school are very precious to me. Finally, it was one of the best learning experiences I’ve ever had. I would not be who I am today if I didn’t have those memories to grow from.
Still, it was traumatic for a hyper-sensitive person like myself, and ever since I’ve had kind of a Pavlovian response to reminders of high school. Obviously I didn’t hold any real grudges against my classmates—no one was ever “out to get me” and it was certainly not their fault that my nature was so poorly equipped for the whole situation—but whenever I would run into someone who knew me back then, I would be swarmed with all those old feelings of inadequacy. So not pleasant. I went to the five-year-reunion and felt so shy and “lame” that the idea of repeating the experience was not exactly appealing.
But the convincers were…convincing. And as often happens when I get so worried about something, I got mad. At myself. I was being a ninny. I’m in a really good place in life. Sure, there are aspects of where I am that are not what I’d like, but overall, I’m probably the happiest I’ve ever been, and as a result I’m the most confident I’ve ever been as well. So what the heck was my problem? Why was I letting myself be scared of a friggin’ party?
Fine, I thought. I’ll go to the stupid party. Always so gracious, aren’t I? Lol.
So I’ve been getting myself mentally prepared. I’m so in my head all the time that if there’s something I’m struggling with I have my standard arsenal of coping mechanisms. I bought a new top I knew I’d feel good in. I came up with my little mantras of self-worth that I won’t be repeating here, thank you very much. I even made a “reunion playlist” on my Itunes filled with my favorite “you go girl” and “relax your neuroticness for just a second” songs (Indigo Girls feature strongly on these kind of playlists). It was like bootcamp for the ego.
Then the day itself arrived. And I got a little nervous as I started walking in. But then, once we were inside, something weird happened. Nothing. No panic, no waves of “I’m back in high school……waaaaahhhh….” I was totally calm. And I actually really enjoyed myself.
Somehow, the fact that these people were reminders of that bad time of my life didn’t matter at all. They were just people, not triggers. And for the record, they’re awesome people! Friendly and welcoming, all very accomplished and smart and really great to talk to. I’m sure they’ve always been that way and I was just too wrapped up in my personal narrative to notice. And now that I was no longer so trapped, I was able to enjoy the situation for what it was—an opportunity to see how great everyone has turned out.
So here’s my moral—yes, as you know, as a former Religion and Literature geek, I can’t rest until I find the meaning in things, but this one I think is valid. How many of our insecurities are self-created? Yes, there are actual events that I can point to that made me so unhappy back in the day, but the whole Ghost of High School Issues Past that’s been haunting me for years is entirely my own creation, a fact I can realize now that I’ve seen it be so easily vanquished. Obviously not everything can be so nicely solved, but sometimes what we find so defining and confining is actually completely in our control. Now I’m getting kind of self-help-y so I’ll stop, but this weekend reminded me to always be aware of whether my baggage is legitimate or just stuff that is solely the result of my own over-thinki-ness.
PS, thus the title of this post. Indigo Girls classic: “the hardest to learn was the least complicated.”
Anyway, so, yes, I survived my 10-year-reunion. I have to admit no one did anything regrettable. No dancing on the bar or falling off stools. I had one glass of wine too many (read: two glasses of wine—I think I need to drink more—there, two morals in one post!!) which was kind of dumb. When I have two glasses of wine, I tend to be ill-advisedly and completely unintentionally flirty. Xenia tells me I wasn’t bad, but I really hope I didn’t accidentally proposition someone—or embarrass someone! It’s happened before, but never with someone I’ve known since before puberty. Also, my verbal filter completely disappears—it’s never really all that good a filter ANYWAY but still—so if anyone reading this was embarrassed or weirded out, I apologize. But seriously, that was the only poor decision I saw! Apparently interesting things happened at the preparty the night before, but I missed that. Sigh.
Oh well. It was fun and I’m so glad I went ☺. Thanks to the people who organized and to my classmates for being wonderful. I wish you all well, and really liked seeing you. Take care!!!
Much love.
Pause. Holy crap, I am old.
Ok, we’re back. Anyway, so, yes, it was my ten-year reunion. And it was…anticlimactic. In a really good way.
Let me explain. For months I’d been getting encouraging invitations and reminders from the wonderful classmates organizing the party, and one of my best friends, Xenia, had been mentioning it casually to try to get me to say I was going. And for months, I resisted all these invitations.
Why? Not to be high maintenance, but because I was really REALLY scared to go.
I attended the same school from first to twelfth grade, and for much of the latter part of that time period I was miserable. From about sixth grade on (the Awkward Growth Spurt and then the prolonged Recovery Period), I felt like a social leper, so lonely and isolated I could barely stand it. I’ve come to realize this is much more of a universal experience than I could have believed when I was going through it, and there are positives to not having high school be the best time of your life. For one, at least I know I didn’t peak then! And for another, the real friendships that were created and have lasted since high school are very precious to me. Finally, it was one of the best learning experiences I’ve ever had. I would not be who I am today if I didn’t have those memories to grow from.
Still, it was traumatic for a hyper-sensitive person like myself, and ever since I’ve had kind of a Pavlovian response to reminders of high school. Obviously I didn’t hold any real grudges against my classmates—no one was ever “out to get me” and it was certainly not their fault that my nature was so poorly equipped for the whole situation—but whenever I would run into someone who knew me back then, I would be swarmed with all those old feelings of inadequacy. So not pleasant. I went to the five-year-reunion and felt so shy and “lame” that the idea of repeating the experience was not exactly appealing.
But the convincers were…convincing. And as often happens when I get so worried about something, I got mad. At myself. I was being a ninny. I’m in a really good place in life. Sure, there are aspects of where I am that are not what I’d like, but overall, I’m probably the happiest I’ve ever been, and as a result I’m the most confident I’ve ever been as well. So what the heck was my problem? Why was I letting myself be scared of a friggin’ party?
Fine, I thought. I’ll go to the stupid party. Always so gracious, aren’t I? Lol.
So I’ve been getting myself mentally prepared. I’m so in my head all the time that if there’s something I’m struggling with I have my standard arsenal of coping mechanisms. I bought a new top I knew I’d feel good in. I came up with my little mantras of self-worth that I won’t be repeating here, thank you very much. I even made a “reunion playlist” on my Itunes filled with my favorite “you go girl” and “relax your neuroticness for just a second” songs (Indigo Girls feature strongly on these kind of playlists). It was like bootcamp for the ego.
Then the day itself arrived. And I got a little nervous as I started walking in. But then, once we were inside, something weird happened. Nothing. No panic, no waves of “I’m back in high school……waaaaahhhh….” I was totally calm. And I actually really enjoyed myself.
Somehow, the fact that these people were reminders of that bad time of my life didn’t matter at all. They were just people, not triggers. And for the record, they’re awesome people! Friendly and welcoming, all very accomplished and smart and really great to talk to. I’m sure they’ve always been that way and I was just too wrapped up in my personal narrative to notice. And now that I was no longer so trapped, I was able to enjoy the situation for what it was—an opportunity to see how great everyone has turned out.
So here’s my moral—yes, as you know, as a former Religion and Literature geek, I can’t rest until I find the meaning in things, but this one I think is valid. How many of our insecurities are self-created? Yes, there are actual events that I can point to that made me so unhappy back in the day, but the whole Ghost of High School Issues Past that’s been haunting me for years is entirely my own creation, a fact I can realize now that I’ve seen it be so easily vanquished. Obviously not everything can be so nicely solved, but sometimes what we find so defining and confining is actually completely in our control. Now I’m getting kind of self-help-y so I’ll stop, but this weekend reminded me to always be aware of whether my baggage is legitimate or just stuff that is solely the result of my own over-thinki-ness.
PS, thus the title of this post. Indigo Girls classic: “the hardest to learn was the least complicated.”
Anyway, so, yes, I survived my 10-year-reunion. I have to admit no one did anything regrettable. No dancing on the bar or falling off stools. I had one glass of wine too many (read: two glasses of wine—I think I need to drink more—there, two morals in one post!!) which was kind of dumb. When I have two glasses of wine, I tend to be ill-advisedly and completely unintentionally flirty. Xenia tells me I wasn’t bad, but I really hope I didn’t accidentally proposition someone—or embarrass someone! It’s happened before, but never with someone I’ve known since before puberty. Also, my verbal filter completely disappears—it’s never really all that good a filter ANYWAY but still—so if anyone reading this was embarrassed or weirded out, I apologize. But seriously, that was the only poor decision I saw! Apparently interesting things happened at the preparty the night before, but I missed that. Sigh.
Oh well. It was fun and I’m so glad I went ☺. Thanks to the people who organized and to my classmates for being wonderful. I wish you all well, and really liked seeing you. Take care!!!
Much love.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Stand and Protect: 9/11 Reflection
On my first day of orientation at Healthsouth, we had a “fire safety” talk. The gist of the talk was that the as employees, should there be an emergency such as a fire, our duty was to “stand and protect” the patients. They were our first priority, and in an emergency, we’d be the last ones out of the building. This was a change from the previous policy, which was, the safety officer told us, “run like hell.” “Run like hell” was still the policy for the building next door, with which we shared a lobby and a fire alarm system but, in another recent change, we were no longer required to go into THEIR building to attempt to evacuate their patients. It seemed like common sense to me at the time; the idea of running into a building in which the actual employees were running out to “save” people seemed absurd.
I was thinking about this conversation that morning as I was reading 9/11 stories in the paper. One story told of a NYC firefighter. He was on his day off, and driving into New Jersey when he heard about the towers on the radio. He turned his car around and drove back into the city. When he encountered the traffic stop, he got out of his car and ran the rest of the way, joining his company at Ground Zero. He died there a few hours later.
It occurred to me that this man had run like hell in order to stand to protect. Yes, it was logically absurd that he would make so much effort to run into the buildings, but the bravery and selflessness of the act make logic obsolete. There’s a lot of hyperbole floating around today, but it is not an overstatement to say that bravery and selflessness are what makes this country great. I’m a huge fan of common sense but people are at their best when they abandon their own self-interest, and there is no greater example of that then the seemingly illogical idea of the responders running INTO a collapsing inferno.
There’s a lot of talk about what’s wrong with today’s generation. I’m not convinced it’s not the same thing that’s been wrong with EVERY generation, just focused into different toys and channels, but one thing I often pinpoint is who kids choose as their heroes. The pro athletes, the singers, the politicians. Of course the hard work those people do is worth celebrating, but I think we miss an opportunity when we allow a child to have Justin Bieber or Donovan McNabb as their number-one hero. Do we really want kids growing up convinced that they have to be super attractive and/or super wealthy? Certainly not, but that is the message they get from a lot from the common heroes.
One thing about 9/11 is that it reminds us what we should really celebrate. You can be an everyday Joe, you can live a mundane, unspectacular life, but if you respond the right way—whether running like hell or standing to protect or both, you become a hero. The quality of selflessness, and the unity that comes when people find that selflessness, that’s the version of the American dream we should celebrate, and teach the next generation to celebrate, and we should remember that every day of the year, not just on this anniversary. And we should hope we never have another day that teaches us those lessons in such a horrific way.
Much love.
I was thinking about this conversation that morning as I was reading 9/11 stories in the paper. One story told of a NYC firefighter. He was on his day off, and driving into New Jersey when he heard about the towers on the radio. He turned his car around and drove back into the city. When he encountered the traffic stop, he got out of his car and ran the rest of the way, joining his company at Ground Zero. He died there a few hours later.
It occurred to me that this man had run like hell in order to stand to protect. Yes, it was logically absurd that he would make so much effort to run into the buildings, but the bravery and selflessness of the act make logic obsolete. There’s a lot of hyperbole floating around today, but it is not an overstatement to say that bravery and selflessness are what makes this country great. I’m a huge fan of common sense but people are at their best when they abandon their own self-interest, and there is no greater example of that then the seemingly illogical idea of the responders running INTO a collapsing inferno.
There’s a lot of talk about what’s wrong with today’s generation. I’m not convinced it’s not the same thing that’s been wrong with EVERY generation, just focused into different toys and channels, but one thing I often pinpoint is who kids choose as their heroes. The pro athletes, the singers, the politicians. Of course the hard work those people do is worth celebrating, but I think we miss an opportunity when we allow a child to have Justin Bieber or Donovan McNabb as their number-one hero. Do we really want kids growing up convinced that they have to be super attractive and/or super wealthy? Certainly not, but that is the message they get from a lot from the common heroes.
One thing about 9/11 is that it reminds us what we should really celebrate. You can be an everyday Joe, you can live a mundane, unspectacular life, but if you respond the right way—whether running like hell or standing to protect or both, you become a hero. The quality of selflessness, and the unity that comes when people find that selflessness, that’s the version of the American dream we should celebrate, and teach the next generation to celebrate, and we should remember that every day of the year, not just on this anniversary. And we should hope we never have another day that teaches us those lessons in such a horrific way.
Much love.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Online Dating: The Spanx of the Romantic World.
If you’re not familiar with Spanx, they’re a kind of undergarments designed to support and flatter your figure. They tuck, tighten, eliminate panty lines, and make you look fabulous under your clothes. They are also expensive, pretty uncomfortable, and very unsexy. Still, you sometimes decide they’re worth it, cause, they offer the promise of good things, like fitting into your skinny jeans.
I think this is a good analogy for online dating.
There are some hard truths about being single as you approach 30. Most everyone meets their significant others in school or at work. If that story is not your story, it can kind of feel like you’ve missed your chances. I mean, if, say, you attend a woman’s college, an basically all-female grad program, and work at places like a school that has exactly one—ONE—male employee, and he’s a flamboyant Olivia Newton-John fan who talks all the time about his “friend” Jerry, you will quickly learn that you probably have missed some sort of Coupledom boat.
But, as everyone says, that does not have to be the case! You can meet people at any stage of your life, through any means!! (The more punctuation marks, the more sincere the self-help author!!) Single people meet other single people at communal places such as baseball games or bars, through social activities like kickball, and, as you may have inferred from the title, from online dating.
I have at least two friends who have met their significant others online, and they have great relationships. Clearly the process can work. To be honest, though, I hate it. HATE it. I’ve dabbled in the process off and on, and have yet to get over my hatred. For various reasons. I know you’re fascinated to hear why…here, let me explain.
For one thing, there’s the awkward factor. If someone sees your granny panties Spanx, it’s kind of awkward, right? Well, I once had a man wink at me on a site and I recognized him from work (clearly this wasn’t the job with Mr. Newton-John.) Since he just winked at me, and didn’t send a message, I had no idea if he recognized me—we’d never formally met, and while he was pretty distinctive looking, I am not always the most memorable—and I felt like it made a big difference if he knew who I was or not. If he did, why didn’t he just talk to me at work? And if he did, what if I didn’t respond and then we ran into each other in the halls and it was super awkward because I rejected a wink? And if he didn’t recognize me, then my feelings were hurt—memorable or not, c’mon!! (Yes, I am someone who fulfills the “wtf do women want?!?!?” stereotype). After a few hours of agonizing, I responded with a message…”Thanks for winking at me. Don’t I recognize you from work?” I figured that covered all the bases, giving him an opportunity to answer whichever way he wanted and try to avoid the awkwardness. And guess what. HE NEVER WROTE BACK!!!
Seriously. No contact. He never said anything to me, online or at work, ever again, and I spent the next few weeks literally ducking into rooms to hide from him until he was transferred. Pretty much the worst case scenario (other than something like the guy pulling a gun on you)—we didn’t even get to do the fun stuff that normally leads to the awkwardness! I would say that this sort of awkward encounter is not something you’d have to worry about in a big city, but in fact my friend in Boston is now scared to go to her church meetings because the guy she went on a terrible date with after meeting him online is now dating another parishioner. So it happens. And it’s got high potential for embarrassment.
Also, despite some incessant facebooking and blogging, I am always nervous about online interactions. To paraphrase a fantastic movie, I don’t even like to order my SHOES online, and they only go on my feet!! (Clueless reference, just fyi.) But seriously, I always get nervous about buying things on the net. There are some security issues, for one (I’ve had my credit car number compromised on the web), and for another, you really never quite know what you’re going to get. If you’re on a dating website, you have to sell yourself. You pick your most flattering pictures, you try to focus on the interesting parts of your story, and you work hard to hide the crazy. There’s nothing wrong with that, really; even animals do the flirt and attract thing. But just as Spanx can give a false impression of your figure, so can an online profile lead you to have false impressions. This bothers me a lot, I think because I’m a real believer in my perceptions. I can form a judgment about someone about ten seconds after I meet them in person—it’s a gift and a curse. (Sidenote: I often try to NOT judge, but everytime I do that, I meet someone who proves my judgment correct!! Clearly, if I’m not supposed to judge, I’d be proven wrong more often. Besides, I never treat someone differently or worse because of my judgments. So it just keeps happening.) But online it is much harder to do that, and not having my judgment to fall back on makes me super nervous.
This stuff has been on my mind because guess who finally went back online. I’ve been off for a while. There are some nice guys online in Charlottesville, but the majority of them have screen names like “BigHuckin’72” and write profiles that misspell words like “woman” and “business.” “I own my own bisness and just need a good womon for the weekends.” Scary stuff. Plus, I got emotionally invested in two guys who I knew in face-to-face life, one after the other, and was too wrapped up pining and all that rot to spare any more romantic energy. Well, big surprise, those situations didn’t work out, and with the move to a big city where I need to find the cool bars, it seemed like a good time to put on my grown-up Spanx panties and deal with it.
So far, nothing has happened to reverse my hatred. I did get asked out, but I have mixed feelings. First of all, I only responded in the first place cause I promised myself to be less picky (“You see how picky I am about my shoes”….sorry, Clueless relapse) since his whole profile was a quiz for potential girls to take to find out for themselves if they’re “worthy” of him. For the record, I did not keep track of my points, so I don’t even know if I am worthy. Second of all, after the whole message-back-and-forth-dance (be grateful if you are not familiar with this), he finally did the required ask-out. We’d been talking about how I haven’t explored the city so much, and he wrote:
“Well, I could probably be enticed to show you around Federal Hill (Bmore neighborhood) sometime this week since I’ll already be down there a lot running errands. Give me some days you’re around and I’ll see if they work for me.”
Does it make me a bitch that this made me really annoyed? Like, my first reaction was, “well, gee, don’t strain yourself.” Isn’t that a really half-hearted, full-of-himself way to ask someone out? But, here’s the thing. Maybe he’s just bad at emails and/or writing profiles and/or expressing himself through words. Maybe he’s just socially awkward instead of dickish. But I don’t know. I have no way of knowing until/if I actually meet him in person—something I am not so eager to do right this second. But remember missing the boat? Can you really afford to be so picky you don’t even give someone the chance of a first meeting (unless you’re convinced they’re a serial killer)?
So this is my dilemma. Any advice is welcome. I’ve come to learn that even bad first dates can be good in terms of stories (remind me to tell you about the time I was so tired of the date I couldn’t bear the idea of him accompanying me home and lied that I lived around the corner, walking out of sight and hiding until he left…good times) and since I’m trying to be less picky, it seems like I have to go. Still, makes me wish I had the kind of body that didn’t really need Spanx, and the kind of dating life that wouldn’t need online adventures. Maybe someday?
Hope your “bisnesses” are going well!! Much love.
I think this is a good analogy for online dating.
There are some hard truths about being single as you approach 30. Most everyone meets their significant others in school or at work. If that story is not your story, it can kind of feel like you’ve missed your chances. I mean, if, say, you attend a woman’s college, an basically all-female grad program, and work at places like a school that has exactly one—ONE—male employee, and he’s a flamboyant Olivia Newton-John fan who talks all the time about his “friend” Jerry, you will quickly learn that you probably have missed some sort of Coupledom boat.
But, as everyone says, that does not have to be the case! You can meet people at any stage of your life, through any means!! (The more punctuation marks, the more sincere the self-help author!!) Single people meet other single people at communal places such as baseball games or bars, through social activities like kickball, and, as you may have inferred from the title, from online dating.
I have at least two friends who have met their significant others online, and they have great relationships. Clearly the process can work. To be honest, though, I hate it. HATE it. I’ve dabbled in the process off and on, and have yet to get over my hatred. For various reasons. I know you’re fascinated to hear why…here, let me explain.
For one thing, there’s the awkward factor. If someone sees your granny panties Spanx, it’s kind of awkward, right? Well, I once had a man wink at me on a site and I recognized him from work (clearly this wasn’t the job with Mr. Newton-John.) Since he just winked at me, and didn’t send a message, I had no idea if he recognized me—we’d never formally met, and while he was pretty distinctive looking, I am not always the most memorable—and I felt like it made a big difference if he knew who I was or not. If he did, why didn’t he just talk to me at work? And if he did, what if I didn’t respond and then we ran into each other in the halls and it was super awkward because I rejected a wink? And if he didn’t recognize me, then my feelings were hurt—memorable or not, c’mon!! (Yes, I am someone who fulfills the “wtf do women want?!?!?” stereotype). After a few hours of agonizing, I responded with a message…”Thanks for winking at me. Don’t I recognize you from work?” I figured that covered all the bases, giving him an opportunity to answer whichever way he wanted and try to avoid the awkwardness. And guess what. HE NEVER WROTE BACK!!!
Seriously. No contact. He never said anything to me, online or at work, ever again, and I spent the next few weeks literally ducking into rooms to hide from him until he was transferred. Pretty much the worst case scenario (other than something like the guy pulling a gun on you)—we didn’t even get to do the fun stuff that normally leads to the awkwardness! I would say that this sort of awkward encounter is not something you’d have to worry about in a big city, but in fact my friend in Boston is now scared to go to her church meetings because the guy she went on a terrible date with after meeting him online is now dating another parishioner. So it happens. And it’s got high potential for embarrassment.
Also, despite some incessant facebooking and blogging, I am always nervous about online interactions. To paraphrase a fantastic movie, I don’t even like to order my SHOES online, and they only go on my feet!! (Clueless reference, just fyi.) But seriously, I always get nervous about buying things on the net. There are some security issues, for one (I’ve had my credit car number compromised on the web), and for another, you really never quite know what you’re going to get. If you’re on a dating website, you have to sell yourself. You pick your most flattering pictures, you try to focus on the interesting parts of your story, and you work hard to hide the crazy. There’s nothing wrong with that, really; even animals do the flirt and attract thing. But just as Spanx can give a false impression of your figure, so can an online profile lead you to have false impressions. This bothers me a lot, I think because I’m a real believer in my perceptions. I can form a judgment about someone about ten seconds after I meet them in person—it’s a gift and a curse. (Sidenote: I often try to NOT judge, but everytime I do that, I meet someone who proves my judgment correct!! Clearly, if I’m not supposed to judge, I’d be proven wrong more often. Besides, I never treat someone differently or worse because of my judgments. So it just keeps happening.) But online it is much harder to do that, and not having my judgment to fall back on makes me super nervous.
This stuff has been on my mind because guess who finally went back online. I’ve been off for a while. There are some nice guys online in Charlottesville, but the majority of them have screen names like “BigHuckin’72” and write profiles that misspell words like “woman” and “business.” “I own my own bisness and just need a good womon for the weekends.” Scary stuff. Plus, I got emotionally invested in two guys who I knew in face-to-face life, one after the other, and was too wrapped up pining and all that rot to spare any more romantic energy. Well, big surprise, those situations didn’t work out, and with the move to a big city where I need to find the cool bars, it seemed like a good time to put on my grown-up Spanx panties and deal with it.
So far, nothing has happened to reverse my hatred. I did get asked out, but I have mixed feelings. First of all, I only responded in the first place cause I promised myself to be less picky (“You see how picky I am about my shoes”….sorry, Clueless relapse) since his whole profile was a quiz for potential girls to take to find out for themselves if they’re “worthy” of him. For the record, I did not keep track of my points, so I don’t even know if I am worthy. Second of all, after the whole message-back-and-forth-dance (be grateful if you are not familiar with this), he finally did the required ask-out. We’d been talking about how I haven’t explored the city so much, and he wrote:
“Well, I could probably be enticed to show you around Federal Hill (Bmore neighborhood) sometime this week since I’ll already be down there a lot running errands. Give me some days you’re around and I’ll see if they work for me.”
Does it make me a bitch that this made me really annoyed? Like, my first reaction was, “well, gee, don’t strain yourself.” Isn’t that a really half-hearted, full-of-himself way to ask someone out? But, here’s the thing. Maybe he’s just bad at emails and/or writing profiles and/or expressing himself through words. Maybe he’s just socially awkward instead of dickish. But I don’t know. I have no way of knowing until/if I actually meet him in person—something I am not so eager to do right this second. But remember missing the boat? Can you really afford to be so picky you don’t even give someone the chance of a first meeting (unless you’re convinced they’re a serial killer)?
So this is my dilemma. Any advice is welcome. I’ve come to learn that even bad first dates can be good in terms of stories (remind me to tell you about the time I was so tired of the date I couldn’t bear the idea of him accompanying me home and lied that I lived around the corner, walking out of sight and hiding until he left…good times) and since I’m trying to be less picky, it seems like I have to go. Still, makes me wish I had the kind of body that didn’t really need Spanx, and the kind of dating life that wouldn’t need online adventures. Maybe someday?
Hope your “bisnesses” are going well!! Much love.
Monday, September 5, 2011
"I'm Never Moving Again!!" Says the Girl with the 3 Month Lease.
I am back in the blogosphere!! I know you missed me!!!
I had a great weekend, spent mainly in DC. I hung out with three good friends and their associates, which made for a really entertaining mix of activities. To list the highlights, in the past three days, I: hung out with a two-year-old, made friends with a three-legged dog, became acquainted (on friendly terms) with a bouncer named Big Tony, danced at a total dive bar in Adams Morgan while sharing pitchers of vodka (!!!), ate brunch at an vegan soul food restaurant, discussed the pros and cons of anarchy at a African bookstore/smoothie shop, attended an outdoor drum circle, and received a pen with the name of a Bethesda diner waiter’s website on it. I love the variety and continuity of my friendships, and how many wonderful things they reveal to me as we grow and change as people. To give you on example, I went dancing (and drinking) with my friend and her boyfriend. My friend was wearing her hair down and styled, dangling earrings, a tight sexy blue dress, and three inch blue sequined heels. When I met her, junior year of college, she’d never had an alcoholic beverage and never wore any shoes but her sneakers. People change so much!! And when they change but only manage to become even more awesome, I feel so lucky to be their friends.
In other news, it’s only been 2 weeks, and I don’t want to jinx anything, but I think I love my new job. I’ll give you a moment to illustrate why. In my first treatment, which I did with my predecessor supervising me, I put my super cute kid patient (his teacher calls him Guy Smiley, if that gives you an idea of the level of cuteness) on the swing, let him get some proprioceptive input, and then, when his torso wasn’t strong enough to sit up on the swing, rearranged him down on the mat, sitting up inbetween my legs so I could give him full body support. At one point, I realized I’d just been sitting there hugging him (supporting him, really, but it was basically a hug) for three minutes while I was discussing treatment plans with my supervisor. “Sorry, A, I know this isn’t really therapy for you,” I told him, but then I realized that I was wrong. It was therapy for him. I’m working somewhere where hugging a kid is therapy—accepted, funded, appropriate therapy. How can you not love it?
Ok, so now that you know it ends happily, let me tell you a story. It is a story about moving. Specifically, about how hard a move can be when both the universe and the mover’s previously identified psychological/emotional issues can conspire together to create a clusterfuck of quite stressful dimensions. I’m sure most of you move, if not easily, then simply and un-heinously enough. I am, for better or worse, not one of you.
Let’s start by listing the really REALLY good parts about this move for which I forever grateful. First of all, outside it is currently raining so hard I expect Noah’s ark to come floating by any second (they probably will try to tell me I can’t take my cats because they’re both female, but I’ll refer to them to that stupid Jurassic Park female dinosaur plot and hopefully squeeze us on), and I am sitting securely in my apartment unpacking. It could have rained this hard when we were packing the UHaul, when we were unpacking the UHaul, or when we were packing and unpacking my car. It very graciously did not rain at any of those times, so I am grateful. Second, you will notice I was able to use the plural form of “were packing” every single time. As alone as I often feel in my eternally single state, it does me good to remember that actually I am not anywhere close to alone in life. Maggie and Jake, my parents (well, really just my mom, since Dad’s contributions were limited to sarcastic encouragements over a phone line, but I’ll give him a shout-out anyway), Cary and Chris, and Karen all deserve gigantic rounds of applause for being the best support system a borderline hysterical, not-terribly strong or coordinated or organized would-be mover could ask for. They have carried not only my seemingly endless stuff but also my sorry self throughout this process, and I love them/owe them forever. Hopefully one day I can repay them. Third, on my third and final trip up to Baltimore in four days, I passed a UHaul broken down on the Beltway right inbetween Wisconsin and Connecticut Aves, the poor driver sweating and swearing as he attempted to help the tow truck driver attach the pull. I was never that driver. Thank you, universe, for that mercy.
So, now let’s get to the less boring stuff—the “wtf” stuff! I was kind of asking for trouble from the get-go with this, because I only took a week off between jobs. This was a financially motivated decision, and I am going to appreciate the paycheck, cause DAMN is moving expensive, but it really did not take into account my mental sanity. I didn’t have a place to move until last Saturday, I didn’t have a truck until Monday, and I didn’t have movers locked down until Tuesday when Maggie generously offered herself and Jake to help with the Charlottesville load. Because of this uncertainty, I had no trouble convincing myself packing and everything could wait because why bother, nothing was set in stone yet anyway! Besides, packing makes me sad. Donating to Goodwill is awesome—it does good, and it also serves to remind me that sure, I can always buy new clothes, because think of all the clothes that means I can donate!! (yes, I am aware of the flaw in this thinking, but isn’t my way more fun???) On the other hand, I definitely cried while assembling the bags (6 this time, 2 less than I ended up with when moving from Boston—progress!). I decided that since I’d had that comforter since August of 2001, and it was no longer moss green but vaguely dark yellow, it would be fair to donate it. But—but—that was one of my oldest compatriots. It saw me through 4 years of college (pushed on the floor under the ridiculously hot metal roof of Brecon 4th, huddled under on Pem West 2nd since the heating system literally didn’t reach to our room, packed in storage in Rhoads for the half year I was in London, and snuggling my mom in the Pem West Towers for our graduation day nap after taking the Red-Eye from LA post Cary’s graduation), two years of DC on that old bed of Tracy’s that Ginny still uses in Norfolk, and two years in Boston, tucked in my windowless bedroom in the Fenway apartment. True, I’d bought a new duvet and duvet cover in Charlottesville (petal pink to go with the floral bedroom décor—I figure, if you’re a girl with a sad lack of testosterone in your daily life, you might as well go whole hog with the femininity in your bedroom decor), but the old one had been a much-loved cat blanket there. It never tore or spread its synthetic stuffing, no matter what it went through. And I was just (cleaning it first but then) tossing it in a bag, and giving it away??? I felt like I was betraying it. This is my example of why I find packing and downsizing so challenging, which is why moving turns into such a nightmare every time.
I was going to write the rest as a narrative, but I think it works better as bullet points. Here is what happened when I moved.
• Monday: I drive to Baltimore and sign my lease. I ask to move in Thursday and they say, “fine,” but the woman makes a big point about me being there on Wednesday to pick up my keys—my lease, she emphasizes, starts on Wednesday, and I need to be there then. Fine.
• Monday night: my mom tells me she cannot move me on Thursday. By “move me,” I mean, emotionally and logistically support me. She and my dad made a formal statement vowing to never lift furniture again after they helped me move into my fourthstory walk-up senior year of college. Heh. Can I move in on Friday, she asks. If I can’t, I’ll be doing the Baltimore part by myself.
• 9:30 Tuesday morning: I call and beg the apartment complex to let me move in Friday. They make a big effing deal about it, but say yes. And even agree to let me pick up the keys on Friday, as long as I swear I am not trying to change the terms of my lease and trying to skip the financial responsibility of the two days of Wednesday and Thursday. For Pete’s sake. I reserve the elevator for 1-3 on Friday afternoon (an elevator, I tell my mom. No stairs!! She gives me a “This time.” Again, heh.)
• 10:00 Tuesday morning: I lock down the Uhaul reservation. They guide me through reserving movers to load me in Thursday in Cville and then unload me in Bmore on Friday.
• 11:00 Tuesday morning: I call Comcast to “transfer” my service. The man says he cannot lock down my agreement because I am apparently late on my August bill, and until I pay it I cannot make any other arrangements. He tells me how to pay it on the phone and then assures me after I do that, the transfer will automatically process. I pay the bill on the phone with an added $5 “convenience fee.” Convenience that guarantees my payment may take up to 48 hours to process. Gotta love it.
• 9:30 Wednesday morning: The movers I’d “locked down” call me. They operate out of DC and will charge me $500 to come down to Charlottesville for that part of the move. The Baltimore part would be covered by the fee I already paid. I agreed to just have them come to Baltimore, arranging for them to be at that very specific 1-3 time slot and send a panicked email to Maggie, honestly intending to just vent, because all of sudden, I was on the line to either pay MORE money to reserve new people within 24 hours or to singlehandedly carry a loveseat, chair, etc, into a UHaul by myself. She tells me to not be stupid, that she and Jake will come tomorrow night to help me load. I swear I will be ready.
• 1:30, Thursday afternoon. Maggie comes by to drop me by the Uhaul place. On the way, I return a call from the Bmore apartment complex. Apparently there has been a mix-up, and the cleaners are not going to be done with the turnover until Friday at about 4. I remind them that THEY wanted ME to move in WEDNESDAY, I was the one who delayed it, and that I have movers coming at my originally reserved time at 1. More grumbling, but they tell me they will arrange it, don’t worry. We arrive at the UHaul store and Maggie then attempts to follow me back to my apartment. I say “attempt” because, to travel the 1 mile back to my place, I lead her through the most winding, around-your-elbow-to-get-to-your-toe route through Belmont possible. It is near impossible to u-turn on Monticello Avenue in a 10’ truck. So instead, we drive through the neighborhood, including down that super steep hill! I only take out one tree branch though, so it was a success. Once we get to my house, Maggie unsurprisingly is unwilling to watch me try to back the UHaul into the space most convenient to my apartment, and does it herself. Flawlessly. She then helps me load a few things—very sweetly managing to not laugh when I say things like, “How do you use a dolly?” Then she leaves me to go to work, promising to return with Jake that evening.
• 6:00, Thursday evening. Maggie texts me that she and Jake are on their way. I respond, “Thank God, I am in need of your superior spatial reasoning!”
• 6:15, Thursday evening: They come anyway. Despite all cosmic signs telling them to run far far away. Don’t worry, I’ve since sent them flowers.
Let’s take a break to review the reasons I suck at packing:
--I am a packrat that gets emotionally attached to her stuff.
--I am extraordinarily clumsy. If there is a way to bruise myself on a box or a bumper, I will find it.
--I am not strong. True, I am trained enough to get a 200lb man with hemiplegia from a bed to a wheelchair using pure body mechanics, but when it comes to lifting, carrying, and gently placing heavy objects, my twiggy little arms tend to give out.
--As much as I hate to be a cliché kind of girl, I have NO spatial reasoning intelligence. I look at a space and at the things I need to put into it, and find a way to make sure it DOESN’T fit. It’s a gift.
Ok, back to the timeline.
• 6:25, Thursday evening: Maggie and Jake learn to stop asking me where I think we should put things and to start just stacking it in, knowing if it was up to me, the toaster box would somehow end up under the loveseat. Because that might make sense to me at the time.
• 6:31, Thursday evening. Stuffing things were I’ve been told to inside the UHaul, I hear, “THUMP THUMP THUMP” and then “giggle giggle giggle” from the stairways. No one can confirm exactly what happens, but one of my boxes of books is newly smushed. At least it wasn’t the Kindle. Again.
• 6:45, Thursday evening. I realize we’ve been locked out of my apartment. Fortunately, the leasing office is having a party, and someone is there to give me a spare key. Good thing, since the other option was scaling the wall to my second floor balcony.
• 7:00, Thursday evening. Everything that I’ve managed to pack is in the truck. Maggie and Jake peace out and I go back to my apartment, which I assure myself only contains a TV, my laptop, two cat scratch stands, and two moderately stressed cats.
• 1:30, Friday morning: The cats demonstrate their stress by sitting on my rib cage and waking me up for some emotional assurance.
• 6:30, Friday morning. I wake up and put just a few more things I found in the apartment in the truck.
• 8:30, Friday morning. I leave for Baltimore.
• 8:45, Friday morning. I pull over to try to fix my right side mirror since I can’t see out of it.
• 9:00, Friday morning, I stop to try to RE-fix my right side mirror.
• 9:10, Friday morning. After stop number 3, I give up on seeing out of the right side mirror, unless I lean all the way forward in my seat and turn my head all the way around. Hey, who can’t drive a ten foot truck through three of the busiest highways on the East Coast using just one mirror?? Right??
• 11:30, Friday morning. As I think I have mentioned, my normal driving speed tends to err on the side of “speed demon” vs “granny.” This is not possible in a UHaul. Because of this, I am still in Virginia, 3 hours after starting. My mom is on her way too, and is very nice about the fact that she will beat me there.
• 12:30, Friday afternoon. I arrive and meet my mom. The lady at the front desk of my apartment building tells me the cleaners are not done, and therefore, I cannot have my key. I remind her about my movers, and she says that it’s fine, I can just put my stuff in the room the cleaners have finished while they work in the other. I fight the urge to remind her that they gave me hell for not moving in two days before. Would the cleaners have been one by 10 on Wednesday, I want to ask. I do not. I let her reserve the elevator for me, and go to show my apartment to my mom. There are no cleaners inside. The floor is wet, but the place is empty. We go back to sit by the Uhaul and wait for the movers.
• 12:45, Friday afternoon: The movers call. They are stuck in traffic, but swear they will be there by 1:20. My mom decides to go get us some sandwiches to eat while we wait.
• 1:30, Friday afternoon: I call the movers. They don’t know where they are, but they swear they are coming. Apparently GPS stops working on I-95. Did you know this? I remind them gently of the elevator reservation.
• 2:00, Friday afternoon: I call the movers again. They have started moving again, and will be there in 20 minutes. I remind them of the reservation, they promise they can move a 10 foot truck in 30 minutes.
• 2:30, Friday afternoon. The movers arrive. They are very friendly. They look at my truck and say they can do the move in like 25 minutes.
• 4:30, Friday afternoon. They finish moving everything. We wish each other the best, I pretend I will call them if I need to move again, and they head off.
• 4:35, Friday afternoon. My mom and I head to the Uhaul place, 1 mile down the road, to drop it off.
• 4:55, Friday afternoon. Despite traffic, we arrive, I drop off the keys. We get back in the car and I realize I can’t find my glasses, so we go back to my apartment to find them.
• 5:00, Friday afternoon. The uhaul place calls. I forgot to fill up the half-empty tank, and they will charge me $60 to fill it for me, and he insists I should come back and do it myself.
• 5:15. I go up to the apartment to look for my glasses, leaving my cell phone in the car with my mom.
• 5:25. I give up on the search, trying not to panic. I go back down. My mom lowers the car window and holds out my glasses case. They were in my purse the whole time.
• 5:45. We get back to the Uhaul place. As we pull in, another driver pulls in and blocks in my truck. I jump out and do my best “lost girl” talk to convince him to move so I can get out. If I’m spatially unintelligent, this driver is spatially retarded. After various hand gestures, we finally arrange things.
• 5:55. I complete 4 left turns and a u-turn in a CVS parking lot, and return with my filled gas tank. $40 to fill half a tank. What a way to save $20. My mom and I decide to avoid rush hour beltway traffic, and head downtown to kill some time.
• 6:05. Abundant traffic and a largely purple-clad pedestrian population helps us realize there is a preseason Ravens game happening downtown.
• 6:10. A car with four male yuppies in Ravens jerseys cuts us off in a intersection.
o Mom: “What chowderheads.”
o Me: “Mom, be nice, those guys are my new dating pool.”
o Mom: (Meaningful silence). “Maybe you should just date in DC.”
• 6:15. We park, and go inside the gallery to get Starbucks. My sister calls and we make plans for a Cville breakfast tomorrow morning.
• 7:00. We decide to brave the traffic and leave. Getting on I-95 is fine. “Club Can’t Handle Me” comes on the radio and I start to sing along, because my mom has to love me even if I’m tone deaf, and because I feel pretty good about having moved. I moved, dammit!! I’m such a grown-up!
• 7:45. We slow down on the Beltway, right by Tysons, where they are building a new Metro line and five lanes turn into four and every driver is obligated to lose their effing mind at the sight of white concrete construction walls.
• 7:47. Thunder rumbles, lightning strikes about half a mile away, and the heavens open.
• 7:49. Half a mile from our exit to I-66, we slow from 40 MPH to 10 MPH. As we crawl along the construction, the road slowly turns into a river.
• 8:20. We finally get on the I-66 ramp. The radio tells us that I-66 has 3 of its 4 lanes closed due to flooding. Have I mentioned it’s still raining so hard I begin to suspect the Rapture is happening and I’m going to be left behind because I was bitchy to the apartment people?
• 8:45. We make it to the part of the road that had been closed. It’s not actually closed anymore. Still, I find myself wishing for a Boston Duck as we roll through the waves in the cute little dip in the road.
• 8:49. It stops raining.
• 9:25. We get off I-66 and find a nice Chick-Fil-A in Warrenton for dinner. I’m a simple girl. Chick-Fil-A makes me happy, for several reasons. For one thing, I love the food, and a good waffle fry helps my desperately low blood sugar rise a bit. Secondly, it’s a Christian restaurant, and when I hear the Christian music playing in the bathroom, I figure since the workers are still there, maybe the Rapture hasn’t come. Wooohooo.
• 9:30. We drive out of the suburban sprawl of Warrenton. Watch out, rural section of Rte 29, I think, you’re about to be our bitch.
• 9:50. The gas tank “Empty” sign turns on. Exactly as we pass the sign that says, “Culpepper, 15 miles.”
• 9:52. It starts raining. My mom and I start laughing. I mean, seriously? We try to figure out what we could use as weapons should we end up stuck on the side of the road.
• 10:05. We finally see a Exxon sign and head off the ramp.
• 10:06. We get stopped at a police checkpoint.
• 10:07.
o Police officer: “License, please.“
o My mom: “Here it is. Um, if we run out of gas, could youyou’re your friends help push us out of the way?”
o Police officer: (Pokes head into window, looks at gas sign.) (chuckles.) “All right, ladies, move along.”
• 10:09. We pull into the Exxon.
• 11:25. We arrive at the hotel in Charlottesville.
• 9:30, Saturday morning. Cary asks me if I’m pretty much ready to go. I say yes, but apparently am not convincing. My mom tells me it’ll be ok, and I can’t possibly be in a worse state than Ginny was the day she was supposed to move out of Vanderbilt.
• 10:00, Saturday morning. My mom opens the first cabinet she sees in my kitchen. “Um, Annie?” she says. “Did you check your cabinets?” “Some of them?” I offer.
• 10:30, Saturday morning. I take a break from visiting the dumpster to call Comcast since my cable box reminded me they never called me back. They turn off my service right there but say no one can come pick up the box. I call Cary and ask if she’d mind dropping off the box. She asks if she and Chris need to come over and help. My mom yells “YES” from the bathroom.
• 11:10. Chris says to me, “Ok, we are going to have to come to terms with the fact that this is not all going to fit in your car.”
• 11:15. My mom agrees to take some of my things home to Norfolk for me to retrieve later.
• 11:17. I start crying, because I am the worst packer ever and it’s taking four people to finish a job I thought was done and I hate myself and my life and it’s all a disaster. My family says they still love me, but I notice they don’t disagree with anything else I say.
• 11:30. The cats’ spirits are officially broken. I find them cowering in the same bathroom shelf they used as a shelter the first day they came home with me from the SPCA.
• 12:30. We close the doors on my car and my mom’s trunk. Everyone gives me half-hearted, sweaty hugs. “How long is your lease again?” Chris asks me, sounding a bit terrified. I swear I will not fully unpack in Baltimore. Cary pats me on the shoulder and tells me that new beginnings are a great time to start new habits, like the habit of downsizing. We all say good-bye, and I am alone. I finally manage to stop crying.
• 12:45. I turn in my key. Yes, key. Since one is missing. The leasing lady is very nice about telling me how much it will take out of my security deposit.
• 12:55. I load my broken cats into the carriers and into my car.
• 12:56, Saturday afternoon. I drive out of Stone Creek Village for the last time as a resident.
• 3:00, Saturday afternoon. I drive into Baltimore for the first time as a resident. Karen pulls in at the same time to help me unpack, and I realize that, just maybe, things might be ok.
So there. The saga of my move. I’d really rather not move again, but I say that every time, and somehow it keeps needing to happen. At least we had some laughs. And despite some emotional scars, I feel my friends, family, penguin babies, and myself are starting to recover, plus I think I’ve learned some things about how to make the next move better. Until then, I’ll be reveling in my new apartment. And trying to downsize.
Much love!
I had a great weekend, spent mainly in DC. I hung out with three good friends and their associates, which made for a really entertaining mix of activities. To list the highlights, in the past three days, I: hung out with a two-year-old, made friends with a three-legged dog, became acquainted (on friendly terms) with a bouncer named Big Tony, danced at a total dive bar in Adams Morgan while sharing pitchers of vodka (!!!), ate brunch at an vegan soul food restaurant, discussed the pros and cons of anarchy at a African bookstore/smoothie shop, attended an outdoor drum circle, and received a pen with the name of a Bethesda diner waiter’s website on it. I love the variety and continuity of my friendships, and how many wonderful things they reveal to me as we grow and change as people. To give you on example, I went dancing (and drinking) with my friend and her boyfriend. My friend was wearing her hair down and styled, dangling earrings, a tight sexy blue dress, and three inch blue sequined heels. When I met her, junior year of college, she’d never had an alcoholic beverage and never wore any shoes but her sneakers. People change so much!! And when they change but only manage to become even more awesome, I feel so lucky to be their friends.
In other news, it’s only been 2 weeks, and I don’t want to jinx anything, but I think I love my new job. I’ll give you a moment to illustrate why. In my first treatment, which I did with my predecessor supervising me, I put my super cute kid patient (his teacher calls him Guy Smiley, if that gives you an idea of the level of cuteness) on the swing, let him get some proprioceptive input, and then, when his torso wasn’t strong enough to sit up on the swing, rearranged him down on the mat, sitting up inbetween my legs so I could give him full body support. At one point, I realized I’d just been sitting there hugging him (supporting him, really, but it was basically a hug) for three minutes while I was discussing treatment plans with my supervisor. “Sorry, A, I know this isn’t really therapy for you,” I told him, but then I realized that I was wrong. It was therapy for him. I’m working somewhere where hugging a kid is therapy—accepted, funded, appropriate therapy. How can you not love it?
Ok, so now that you know it ends happily, let me tell you a story. It is a story about moving. Specifically, about how hard a move can be when both the universe and the mover’s previously identified psychological/emotional issues can conspire together to create a clusterfuck of quite stressful dimensions. I’m sure most of you move, if not easily, then simply and un-heinously enough. I am, for better or worse, not one of you.
Let’s start by listing the really REALLY good parts about this move for which I forever grateful. First of all, outside it is currently raining so hard I expect Noah’s ark to come floating by any second (they probably will try to tell me I can’t take my cats because they’re both female, but I’ll refer to them to that stupid Jurassic Park female dinosaur plot and hopefully squeeze us on), and I am sitting securely in my apartment unpacking. It could have rained this hard when we were packing the UHaul, when we were unpacking the UHaul, or when we were packing and unpacking my car. It very graciously did not rain at any of those times, so I am grateful. Second, you will notice I was able to use the plural form of “were packing” every single time. As alone as I often feel in my eternally single state, it does me good to remember that actually I am not anywhere close to alone in life. Maggie and Jake, my parents (well, really just my mom, since Dad’s contributions were limited to sarcastic encouragements over a phone line, but I’ll give him a shout-out anyway), Cary and Chris, and Karen all deserve gigantic rounds of applause for being the best support system a borderline hysterical, not-terribly strong or coordinated or organized would-be mover could ask for. They have carried not only my seemingly endless stuff but also my sorry self throughout this process, and I love them/owe them forever. Hopefully one day I can repay them. Third, on my third and final trip up to Baltimore in four days, I passed a UHaul broken down on the Beltway right inbetween Wisconsin and Connecticut Aves, the poor driver sweating and swearing as he attempted to help the tow truck driver attach the pull. I was never that driver. Thank you, universe, for that mercy.
So, now let’s get to the less boring stuff—the “wtf” stuff! I was kind of asking for trouble from the get-go with this, because I only took a week off between jobs. This was a financially motivated decision, and I am going to appreciate the paycheck, cause DAMN is moving expensive, but it really did not take into account my mental sanity. I didn’t have a place to move until last Saturday, I didn’t have a truck until Monday, and I didn’t have movers locked down until Tuesday when Maggie generously offered herself and Jake to help with the Charlottesville load. Because of this uncertainty, I had no trouble convincing myself packing and everything could wait because why bother, nothing was set in stone yet anyway! Besides, packing makes me sad. Donating to Goodwill is awesome—it does good, and it also serves to remind me that sure, I can always buy new clothes, because think of all the clothes that means I can donate!! (yes, I am aware of the flaw in this thinking, but isn’t my way more fun???) On the other hand, I definitely cried while assembling the bags (6 this time, 2 less than I ended up with when moving from Boston—progress!). I decided that since I’d had that comforter since August of 2001, and it was no longer moss green but vaguely dark yellow, it would be fair to donate it. But—but—that was one of my oldest compatriots. It saw me through 4 years of college (pushed on the floor under the ridiculously hot metal roof of Brecon 4th, huddled under on Pem West 2nd since the heating system literally didn’t reach to our room, packed in storage in Rhoads for the half year I was in London, and snuggling my mom in the Pem West Towers for our graduation day nap after taking the Red-Eye from LA post Cary’s graduation), two years of DC on that old bed of Tracy’s that Ginny still uses in Norfolk, and two years in Boston, tucked in my windowless bedroom in the Fenway apartment. True, I’d bought a new duvet and duvet cover in Charlottesville (petal pink to go with the floral bedroom décor—I figure, if you’re a girl with a sad lack of testosterone in your daily life, you might as well go whole hog with the femininity in your bedroom decor), but the old one had been a much-loved cat blanket there. It never tore or spread its synthetic stuffing, no matter what it went through. And I was just (cleaning it first but then) tossing it in a bag, and giving it away??? I felt like I was betraying it. This is my example of why I find packing and downsizing so challenging, which is why moving turns into such a nightmare every time.
I was going to write the rest as a narrative, but I think it works better as bullet points. Here is what happened when I moved.
• Monday: I drive to Baltimore and sign my lease. I ask to move in Thursday and they say, “fine,” but the woman makes a big point about me being there on Wednesday to pick up my keys—my lease, she emphasizes, starts on Wednesday, and I need to be there then. Fine.
• Monday night: my mom tells me she cannot move me on Thursday. By “move me,” I mean, emotionally and logistically support me. She and my dad made a formal statement vowing to never lift furniture again after they helped me move into my fourthstory walk-up senior year of college. Heh. Can I move in on Friday, she asks. If I can’t, I’ll be doing the Baltimore part by myself.
• 9:30 Tuesday morning: I call and beg the apartment complex to let me move in Friday. They make a big effing deal about it, but say yes. And even agree to let me pick up the keys on Friday, as long as I swear I am not trying to change the terms of my lease and trying to skip the financial responsibility of the two days of Wednesday and Thursday. For Pete’s sake. I reserve the elevator for 1-3 on Friday afternoon (an elevator, I tell my mom. No stairs!! She gives me a “This time.” Again, heh.)
• 10:00 Tuesday morning: I lock down the Uhaul reservation. They guide me through reserving movers to load me in Thursday in Cville and then unload me in Bmore on Friday.
• 11:00 Tuesday morning: I call Comcast to “transfer” my service. The man says he cannot lock down my agreement because I am apparently late on my August bill, and until I pay it I cannot make any other arrangements. He tells me how to pay it on the phone and then assures me after I do that, the transfer will automatically process. I pay the bill on the phone with an added $5 “convenience fee.” Convenience that guarantees my payment may take up to 48 hours to process. Gotta love it.
• 9:30 Wednesday morning: The movers I’d “locked down” call me. They operate out of DC and will charge me $500 to come down to Charlottesville for that part of the move. The Baltimore part would be covered by the fee I already paid. I agreed to just have them come to Baltimore, arranging for them to be at that very specific 1-3 time slot and send a panicked email to Maggie, honestly intending to just vent, because all of sudden, I was on the line to either pay MORE money to reserve new people within 24 hours or to singlehandedly carry a loveseat, chair, etc, into a UHaul by myself. She tells me to not be stupid, that she and Jake will come tomorrow night to help me load. I swear I will be ready.
• 1:30, Thursday afternoon. Maggie comes by to drop me by the Uhaul place. On the way, I return a call from the Bmore apartment complex. Apparently there has been a mix-up, and the cleaners are not going to be done with the turnover until Friday at about 4. I remind them that THEY wanted ME to move in WEDNESDAY, I was the one who delayed it, and that I have movers coming at my originally reserved time at 1. More grumbling, but they tell me they will arrange it, don’t worry. We arrive at the UHaul store and Maggie then attempts to follow me back to my apartment. I say “attempt” because, to travel the 1 mile back to my place, I lead her through the most winding, around-your-elbow-to-get-to-your-toe route through Belmont possible. It is near impossible to u-turn on Monticello Avenue in a 10’ truck. So instead, we drive through the neighborhood, including down that super steep hill! I only take out one tree branch though, so it was a success. Once we get to my house, Maggie unsurprisingly is unwilling to watch me try to back the UHaul into the space most convenient to my apartment, and does it herself. Flawlessly. She then helps me load a few things—very sweetly managing to not laugh when I say things like, “How do you use a dolly?” Then she leaves me to go to work, promising to return with Jake that evening.
• 6:00, Thursday evening. Maggie texts me that she and Jake are on their way. I respond, “Thank God, I am in need of your superior spatial reasoning!”
• 6:15, Thursday evening: They come anyway. Despite all cosmic signs telling them to run far far away. Don’t worry, I’ve since sent them flowers.
Let’s take a break to review the reasons I suck at packing:
--I am a packrat that gets emotionally attached to her stuff.
--I am extraordinarily clumsy. If there is a way to bruise myself on a box or a bumper, I will find it.
--I am not strong. True, I am trained enough to get a 200lb man with hemiplegia from a bed to a wheelchair using pure body mechanics, but when it comes to lifting, carrying, and gently placing heavy objects, my twiggy little arms tend to give out.
--As much as I hate to be a cliché kind of girl, I have NO spatial reasoning intelligence. I look at a space and at the things I need to put into it, and find a way to make sure it DOESN’T fit. It’s a gift.
Ok, back to the timeline.
• 6:25, Thursday evening: Maggie and Jake learn to stop asking me where I think we should put things and to start just stacking it in, knowing if it was up to me, the toaster box would somehow end up under the loveseat. Because that might make sense to me at the time.
• 6:31, Thursday evening. Stuffing things were I’ve been told to inside the UHaul, I hear, “THUMP THUMP THUMP” and then “giggle giggle giggle” from the stairways. No one can confirm exactly what happens, but one of my boxes of books is newly smushed. At least it wasn’t the Kindle. Again.
• 6:45, Thursday evening. I realize we’ve been locked out of my apartment. Fortunately, the leasing office is having a party, and someone is there to give me a spare key. Good thing, since the other option was scaling the wall to my second floor balcony.
• 7:00, Thursday evening. Everything that I’ve managed to pack is in the truck. Maggie and Jake peace out and I go back to my apartment, which I assure myself only contains a TV, my laptop, two cat scratch stands, and two moderately stressed cats.
• 1:30, Friday morning: The cats demonstrate their stress by sitting on my rib cage and waking me up for some emotional assurance.
• 6:30, Friday morning. I wake up and put just a few more things I found in the apartment in the truck.
• 8:30, Friday morning. I leave for Baltimore.
• 8:45, Friday morning. I pull over to try to fix my right side mirror since I can’t see out of it.
• 9:00, Friday morning, I stop to try to RE-fix my right side mirror.
• 9:10, Friday morning. After stop number 3, I give up on seeing out of the right side mirror, unless I lean all the way forward in my seat and turn my head all the way around. Hey, who can’t drive a ten foot truck through three of the busiest highways on the East Coast using just one mirror?? Right??
• 11:30, Friday morning. As I think I have mentioned, my normal driving speed tends to err on the side of “speed demon” vs “granny.” This is not possible in a UHaul. Because of this, I am still in Virginia, 3 hours after starting. My mom is on her way too, and is very nice about the fact that she will beat me there.
• 12:30, Friday afternoon. I arrive and meet my mom. The lady at the front desk of my apartment building tells me the cleaners are not done, and therefore, I cannot have my key. I remind her about my movers, and she says that it’s fine, I can just put my stuff in the room the cleaners have finished while they work in the other. I fight the urge to remind her that they gave me hell for not moving in two days before. Would the cleaners have been one by 10 on Wednesday, I want to ask. I do not. I let her reserve the elevator for me, and go to show my apartment to my mom. There are no cleaners inside. The floor is wet, but the place is empty. We go back to sit by the Uhaul and wait for the movers.
• 12:45, Friday afternoon: The movers call. They are stuck in traffic, but swear they will be there by 1:20. My mom decides to go get us some sandwiches to eat while we wait.
• 1:30, Friday afternoon: I call the movers. They don’t know where they are, but they swear they are coming. Apparently GPS stops working on I-95. Did you know this? I remind them gently of the elevator reservation.
• 2:00, Friday afternoon: I call the movers again. They have started moving again, and will be there in 20 minutes. I remind them of the reservation, they promise they can move a 10 foot truck in 30 minutes.
• 2:30, Friday afternoon. The movers arrive. They are very friendly. They look at my truck and say they can do the move in like 25 minutes.
• 4:30, Friday afternoon. They finish moving everything. We wish each other the best, I pretend I will call them if I need to move again, and they head off.
• 4:35, Friday afternoon. My mom and I head to the Uhaul place, 1 mile down the road, to drop it off.
• 4:55, Friday afternoon. Despite traffic, we arrive, I drop off the keys. We get back in the car and I realize I can’t find my glasses, so we go back to my apartment to find them.
• 5:00, Friday afternoon. The uhaul place calls. I forgot to fill up the half-empty tank, and they will charge me $60 to fill it for me, and he insists I should come back and do it myself.
• 5:15. I go up to the apartment to look for my glasses, leaving my cell phone in the car with my mom.
• 5:25. I give up on the search, trying not to panic. I go back down. My mom lowers the car window and holds out my glasses case. They were in my purse the whole time.
• 5:45. We get back to the Uhaul place. As we pull in, another driver pulls in and blocks in my truck. I jump out and do my best “lost girl” talk to convince him to move so I can get out. If I’m spatially unintelligent, this driver is spatially retarded. After various hand gestures, we finally arrange things.
• 5:55. I complete 4 left turns and a u-turn in a CVS parking lot, and return with my filled gas tank. $40 to fill half a tank. What a way to save $20. My mom and I decide to avoid rush hour beltway traffic, and head downtown to kill some time.
• 6:05. Abundant traffic and a largely purple-clad pedestrian population helps us realize there is a preseason Ravens game happening downtown.
• 6:10. A car with four male yuppies in Ravens jerseys cuts us off in a intersection.
o Mom: “What chowderheads.”
o Me: “Mom, be nice, those guys are my new dating pool.”
o Mom: (Meaningful silence). “Maybe you should just date in DC.”
• 6:15. We park, and go inside the gallery to get Starbucks. My sister calls and we make plans for a Cville breakfast tomorrow morning.
• 7:00. We decide to brave the traffic and leave. Getting on I-95 is fine. “Club Can’t Handle Me” comes on the radio and I start to sing along, because my mom has to love me even if I’m tone deaf, and because I feel pretty good about having moved. I moved, dammit!! I’m such a grown-up!
• 7:45. We slow down on the Beltway, right by Tysons, where they are building a new Metro line and five lanes turn into four and every driver is obligated to lose their effing mind at the sight of white concrete construction walls.
• 7:47. Thunder rumbles, lightning strikes about half a mile away, and the heavens open.
• 7:49. Half a mile from our exit to I-66, we slow from 40 MPH to 10 MPH. As we crawl along the construction, the road slowly turns into a river.
• 8:20. We finally get on the I-66 ramp. The radio tells us that I-66 has 3 of its 4 lanes closed due to flooding. Have I mentioned it’s still raining so hard I begin to suspect the Rapture is happening and I’m going to be left behind because I was bitchy to the apartment people?
• 8:45. We make it to the part of the road that had been closed. It’s not actually closed anymore. Still, I find myself wishing for a Boston Duck as we roll through the waves in the cute little dip in the road.
• 8:49. It stops raining.
• 9:25. We get off I-66 and find a nice Chick-Fil-A in Warrenton for dinner. I’m a simple girl. Chick-Fil-A makes me happy, for several reasons. For one thing, I love the food, and a good waffle fry helps my desperately low blood sugar rise a bit. Secondly, it’s a Christian restaurant, and when I hear the Christian music playing in the bathroom, I figure since the workers are still there, maybe the Rapture hasn’t come. Wooohooo.
• 9:30. We drive out of the suburban sprawl of Warrenton. Watch out, rural section of Rte 29, I think, you’re about to be our bitch.
• 9:50. The gas tank “Empty” sign turns on. Exactly as we pass the sign that says, “Culpepper, 15 miles.”
• 9:52. It starts raining. My mom and I start laughing. I mean, seriously? We try to figure out what we could use as weapons should we end up stuck on the side of the road.
• 10:05. We finally see a Exxon sign and head off the ramp.
• 10:06. We get stopped at a police checkpoint.
• 10:07.
o Police officer: “License, please.“
o My mom: “Here it is. Um, if we run out of gas, could youyou’re your friends help push us out of the way?”
o Police officer: (Pokes head into window, looks at gas sign.) (chuckles.) “All right, ladies, move along.”
• 10:09. We pull into the Exxon.
• 11:25. We arrive at the hotel in Charlottesville.
• 9:30, Saturday morning. Cary asks me if I’m pretty much ready to go. I say yes, but apparently am not convincing. My mom tells me it’ll be ok, and I can’t possibly be in a worse state than Ginny was the day she was supposed to move out of Vanderbilt.
• 10:00, Saturday morning. My mom opens the first cabinet she sees in my kitchen. “Um, Annie?” she says. “Did you check your cabinets?” “Some of them?” I offer.
• 10:30, Saturday morning. I take a break from visiting the dumpster to call Comcast since my cable box reminded me they never called me back. They turn off my service right there but say no one can come pick up the box. I call Cary and ask if she’d mind dropping off the box. She asks if she and Chris need to come over and help. My mom yells “YES” from the bathroom.
• 11:10. Chris says to me, “Ok, we are going to have to come to terms with the fact that this is not all going to fit in your car.”
• 11:15. My mom agrees to take some of my things home to Norfolk for me to retrieve later.
• 11:17. I start crying, because I am the worst packer ever and it’s taking four people to finish a job I thought was done and I hate myself and my life and it’s all a disaster. My family says they still love me, but I notice they don’t disagree with anything else I say.
• 11:30. The cats’ spirits are officially broken. I find them cowering in the same bathroom shelf they used as a shelter the first day they came home with me from the SPCA.
• 12:30. We close the doors on my car and my mom’s trunk. Everyone gives me half-hearted, sweaty hugs. “How long is your lease again?” Chris asks me, sounding a bit terrified. I swear I will not fully unpack in Baltimore. Cary pats me on the shoulder and tells me that new beginnings are a great time to start new habits, like the habit of downsizing. We all say good-bye, and I am alone. I finally manage to stop crying.
• 12:45. I turn in my key. Yes, key. Since one is missing. The leasing lady is very nice about telling me how much it will take out of my security deposit.
• 12:55. I load my broken cats into the carriers and into my car.
• 12:56, Saturday afternoon. I drive out of Stone Creek Village for the last time as a resident.
• 3:00, Saturday afternoon. I drive into Baltimore for the first time as a resident. Karen pulls in at the same time to help me unpack, and I realize that, just maybe, things might be ok.
So there. The saga of my move. I’d really rather not move again, but I say that every time, and somehow it keeps needing to happen. At least we had some laughs. And despite some emotional scars, I feel my friends, family, penguin babies, and myself are starting to recover, plus I think I’ve learned some things about how to make the next move better. Until then, I’ll be reveling in my new apartment. And trying to downsize.
Much love!
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Airport Diaries
This weekend I went to Colorado. More specifically, from Charlottesville to Richmond to Dallas to Denver, and back again. It was a wonderful trip to see my wonderful friends--I am officially in love with Colorado. And officially sad I don't live on the West Coast with the majority of the BU crew so we could see each other more often!
The one aspect to the trip I could maybe have done without was the volume of time spent traveling. I spent a lot of time in the airport, and, as you might imagine, had a lot of thoughts about airports and traveling and so on. In case you were wondering: here they are.
* How is it that as a native (and largely) indwelling Virginian for 28 years, I have never ONCE used the Richmond airport? Clearly this is a lie--I have to have used it at some point? Right? And my memory's failed me? Who knows. If it is the first time, it's very odd.
*Spending time at the terminal, you have to wonder how many of the teenaged or college-aged boys sitting at the gate waiting to boar, feeling all bad-ass and hardcore with the Ed Hardy t-shirts, edgy baseball hats, and Iphones blasting rap music loud enough for me to hear across the aisle, realize that in 15 years they will have morphed into the men walking by them. You know, the men with the thinning hair, suburban dad uniforms of khaki shorts, polo shirts, and those Tevas with the heel straps, who are pulling neon pink miniature rolling suitcases that say "Barbie" or "Princess" with one hand and using the other to hold onto to tiny pigtailed pouting moppets. Because in 15 years those boys will be those men. It's the true sign of male maturity and domestication in this culture--carrying a Princess Jasmine suitcase without a second thought. Luckily for you guys, most girls seem to think good daddy-hood is MUCH sexier than Ed Hardy.
* Related note on fashion (cause I hate Ed Hardy. Ugh.) When did the airport become a runway?? (or a beach--aren't you freezing in your tank top and short shorts??) Obviously not everyone is lazy enough to wear gym clothes like me (humor me, I'm almost 30 and my window of opportunity for wearing yoga pants in public is narrowing) but what is with the going to the other extreme? First of all, I find normal jeans minorly restrictive--how can anyone handle 6 hours in a tiny seat in skintight skinny jeans?? Isn't there chafing? Button impressions on the skin of your stomach? And the shoes these women wear! I have no patience for the girls who take 10 minutes in the security line unstrapping and restrapping their calf-height gladiator sandals. I fall off kitten heels, so I know my perspective is skewed, but walking the length of the Richmond airport in leopard-print stilettos seems almost masochistic. I don't get it. Women of America (and other places): Yes, you deserve to dress how you want and to feel sexy all the time and not be judged. But please. If there is ever a place to break free from the chains of culturally mandated "attractiveness," the airport is it. And by the way, I'm judging you for trying so friggin' hard. Just fyi.
*I went through a TSA full body scanner for the first time in Richmond. Verrrrryyy...anticlimactic. I mean, the guy barely looked at the picture, how is a girl supposed to feel unfairly ogled and get all indignent? And if I step into a tube, raise my arms, and let a 7-foot-tall scanner go "zoooooom" around me, I expect to step out wearing an Iron Man costume. Or a Superman one--those leggings look comfortable (am I the only one obsessed with being comfortable on planes???) Also, those little footprints in there are way too far apart. I needed to have stretched before I tried that position. Finally, in terms of effectiveness, I forgot to take off my watch and they didn't even care. Well, hmph.
This brings me to a very important fact--I CARRIED ON, I CARRIED ON!!! For the first time in years, I got all my shit in a carry-on sized bag. (I will pause for the round of applause...thank you.) I carried on for practical reasons, mainly, so that while i was waiting for my friends to land in Denver I could hang out in the terminal rather than the baggage claim. This worked well, but in all honesty, the packing almost killed me. I may have cried. And I didn't really escape my packing demons--while I limited myself to merely carried-on size toiletries, I managed to squeeze in 2 of everything--2 face washes, 2 body lotions, etc. I think that means I officially did not travel light.
The other tough aspect of carrying on was carry-on anxiety. I was freaking the eff out the whole time. I tested the suitcase in the carry-on gadget at the check-in counter, but I was convinced it wasn't going to actually fit in the overhead compartment. In my warped brain, I was going to be THAT girl, the one who beheaded or de-toed someone trying to maneuver down the Oompa-Loompa sized aisle, or the one who held up aisle traffic struggling to shove in my bag or the one who got to her seat in the back but couldn't find room and thus had to fight back up to the front to put it up over row 1. Of course, none of these catastrophes occurred but Probably aged ten years from anticipatory stress.
Also, there was security stress. In Richmond the TSA lady at the belt picked up my suitcase as it came out of the scanner and said, "Let's go over here," leading me to the nearby bench. I felt my heart drop. They'd found the scissors that I inexplicably brought to Denver. Or facewash # 2 had fallen out of the quart-size bag (PS, why oh why can't we use gallon-sized? Getting three days worth of toiletries into a quart size was like trying to do a Rubik's cube.) "Ohmygod" I said, as breathlessly as you'd expect. "DidIleavesomethinginmybagI'msosorryI'mjuststupid..." TSA lady looked at me bug-eyed. "Honey, I was just helping you move over here to feel less rushed," she told me.
Right.
cool as a cucumber, that's me. And not at ALL suspicious or shady.
You will not be surprised to hear after all that anxiety I checked my bag ont he way back. $25 of pure stress relief.
*I like people. Really, I do. I know I seem like a misanthrope of the Larry David variety, but it's not true! I work in a people profession, after all! When I do bitch about people, what I'm really bitching about is the chucklehead (or heads) who is making things harder for the rest of their species.
You run into a lot of these geniuses while traveling. On the trip to Denver, one man waited patiently until the announcement was made that all the overhead compartments were full, all passengers should be in their seats, and we were ready to take off. After that, he proceeded to stand up from his window seat and move up 5 rows to the empty window seat by his wife. But he wasn't content just to make all those other people move; he had to take his bag with him. That meant he had to open up the overhead compartment, remove his bag from its neatly packed position, bang it up the aisle (including into my shoulder--you see why I didn't want to be THAT girl), and attempt to jam it into the very full compartment over his new seat. He was not deterred by the flight attendant who came up behind him to re-explain the obvious fact that there was no room, nor by the tense overhead announcement that we would not be leaving the gate until all passengers were seated, nor by the incredible death glares shot his way by his fellow travelers. No, dammit, he was going to make it work, common sense, courtesy, and potential field marshalls be dammed. And by virtue of sheer strength and pure lack of consideration for the fellow bags, he did. He flashed a thumbs up sign to the cabin as he sat down, because clearly he had triumphed, and he was as smug as any chucklehead could be. I miraculously resisted the urge to shout out and tell him where he could stick that thumb. Grrr.
* Not to offend my friends from Texas, or who have different political views from mine, or both, but 3 hours in the Dallas-Fort Worth airport stuck listening to Fox News is pretty much my idea of Purgatory. If not Hell. I was ready to kill for some Muzak. Murder and mocking Fox News, definite grounds for damnation.
*Speaking of Texas, and my earlier statements on fashion, men out there, please stop it with the tight jeans. I can get behind the cowboy look. There's something downright charming about a Stetson. And the plaid button-down shirt thing is just fine (although in my opion, kind of an odd choice for bar-hopping). Even cowboy boots can be kind of hot, though I doubt they're practical for airport security. But the tight jeans are just a flat-out no-go.
For one thing, men can have muffin tops. Your beer belly does not look inherently sexier just because it is flopping over a high Wranglers waistband. Secondly, while a lot of my friends tell me they have no problem seeing denim super-snug on a man's rear end, I find it off-putting. This could be because I am in no way a "butt" girl--butts do not equal sexiness to men. (I am, for the record, a shoulders girl. Total sucker for broad, manly shoulders. Can't explain it, I just appreciate it, lol). But I also think it's wrong to know after one casual and unassuming glace to know if the man strutting by wears boxers or briefs. VPLs are not acceptable for either gender. Finally, my earlier point about skinny jeans (made about women) applies here as well. Isn't there an even higher chance of chafing for men? Like, ow. And ew. Just wear something witha little room.
And that is officially enough thinking about THAT.
* Philosophically and intellectually speaking, air travel is in a lot of ways so bizarre to me. I once heard a comedy bit by Louis C.K. about how funny it was that people bitch about not being able to use their cell phone while FLYING 300 MILES AN HOUR 20,000 FEET ABOVE THE EARTH. The point being, once something becomes commonplace, we get so used to it we forget the wonder and just focus on the annoying bits. I bitch about the times when my computer and cell phone blip on me--why don't I remember the 99% of the time where they make my life work so well in ways unthinkable 40 years ago??
To be fair, air travel nowadays does a lot of work towards taking the wonder away. This weekend, there were long layovers, delayed flights, baggage charges, a depressing lack of snacks, rude flight attendants, and so on and so forth. And it FEELS very inconvenient to drive 1.5 hours to Richmond, fly 3 hours to Dallas, wait 2 hours, fly 2 hours to Denver, then do it all again. On the other hand, you know what's REALLY inconvenient? Not being able to go to your friend's 30th birthday party because you don't have the time to drive cross-country.
The other part that's bizarre is how calmly thousands of people line up everyday to fly really high and really fast in metal cans controlled by people we've never met. I'm not really scared of flying. I understand, logically, why it works that a plane can take off and how it can stay in the air--engine power and thrust and Bernoulli's principle and all that. Landing is what freaks me out. All that height and all that speed stopping on 3 relatively tiny wheels? Mind-boggling. And scary.
I should admit here that physics is not my strong point. As in, I've never taken it. I did Advanced Biology senior year of high school instead, and my "science credit" in college was Psychology 101. Boo-yah. God I love liberal arts schools. The fact that I have a Masters of SCIENCE continues to amaze me every time I remember it. So, anyway, it's not surprising I don't really get how planes land. Still not sure it would make me feel better tho.
And yet, despite that, my fellow humans and I frequently volunteer--hell, PAY--to trust our lives to this made of transportation. I know that statistically car crashes are much more common, likely, and therefore more dangerous, but the idea of dropping out of the sky is much more compelling and terrifying. But it is common now, and the whole thing is just bizarre. And forget to appreciate how marvelous it is that's it's possible.
*So those are my thoughts on traveling. My favorite part of it is the candy in the airport (although let me say Snickers peanut butter bars are very disappointing. The peanut butter to caramel ratio is all wrong). Ok, actually my favorite part is the result, when I get to see people I love. So crazy people and airport stays aside, I think I'll keep flying.
Happy Tuesday :)
The one aspect to the trip I could maybe have done without was the volume of time spent traveling. I spent a lot of time in the airport, and, as you might imagine, had a lot of thoughts about airports and traveling and so on. In case you were wondering: here they are.
* How is it that as a native (and largely) indwelling Virginian for 28 years, I have never ONCE used the Richmond airport? Clearly this is a lie--I have to have used it at some point? Right? And my memory's failed me? Who knows. If it is the first time, it's very odd.
*Spending time at the terminal, you have to wonder how many of the teenaged or college-aged boys sitting at the gate waiting to boar, feeling all bad-ass and hardcore with the Ed Hardy t-shirts, edgy baseball hats, and Iphones blasting rap music loud enough for me to hear across the aisle, realize that in 15 years they will have morphed into the men walking by them. You know, the men with the thinning hair, suburban dad uniforms of khaki shorts, polo shirts, and those Tevas with the heel straps, who are pulling neon pink miniature rolling suitcases that say "Barbie" or "Princess" with one hand and using the other to hold onto to tiny pigtailed pouting moppets. Because in 15 years those boys will be those men. It's the true sign of male maturity and domestication in this culture--carrying a Princess Jasmine suitcase without a second thought. Luckily for you guys, most girls seem to think good daddy-hood is MUCH sexier than Ed Hardy.
* Related note on fashion (cause I hate Ed Hardy. Ugh.) When did the airport become a runway?? (or a beach--aren't you freezing in your tank top and short shorts??) Obviously not everyone is lazy enough to wear gym clothes like me (humor me, I'm almost 30 and my window of opportunity for wearing yoga pants in public is narrowing) but what is with the going to the other extreme? First of all, I find normal jeans minorly restrictive--how can anyone handle 6 hours in a tiny seat in skintight skinny jeans?? Isn't there chafing? Button impressions on the skin of your stomach? And the shoes these women wear! I have no patience for the girls who take 10 minutes in the security line unstrapping and restrapping their calf-height gladiator sandals. I fall off kitten heels, so I know my perspective is skewed, but walking the length of the Richmond airport in leopard-print stilettos seems almost masochistic. I don't get it. Women of America (and other places): Yes, you deserve to dress how you want and to feel sexy all the time and not be judged. But please. If there is ever a place to break free from the chains of culturally mandated "attractiveness," the airport is it. And by the way, I'm judging you for trying so friggin' hard. Just fyi.
*I went through a TSA full body scanner for the first time in Richmond. Verrrrryyy...anticlimactic. I mean, the guy barely looked at the picture, how is a girl supposed to feel unfairly ogled and get all indignent? And if I step into a tube, raise my arms, and let a 7-foot-tall scanner go "zoooooom" around me, I expect to step out wearing an Iron Man costume. Or a Superman one--those leggings look comfortable (am I the only one obsessed with being comfortable on planes???) Also, those little footprints in there are way too far apart. I needed to have stretched before I tried that position. Finally, in terms of effectiveness, I forgot to take off my watch and they didn't even care. Well, hmph.
This brings me to a very important fact--I CARRIED ON, I CARRIED ON!!! For the first time in years, I got all my shit in a carry-on sized bag. (I will pause for the round of applause...thank you.) I carried on for practical reasons, mainly, so that while i was waiting for my friends to land in Denver I could hang out in the terminal rather than the baggage claim. This worked well, but in all honesty, the packing almost killed me. I may have cried. And I didn't really escape my packing demons--while I limited myself to merely carried-on size toiletries, I managed to squeeze in 2 of everything--2 face washes, 2 body lotions, etc. I think that means I officially did not travel light.
The other tough aspect of carrying on was carry-on anxiety. I was freaking the eff out the whole time. I tested the suitcase in the carry-on gadget at the check-in counter, but I was convinced it wasn't going to actually fit in the overhead compartment. In my warped brain, I was going to be THAT girl, the one who beheaded or de-toed someone trying to maneuver down the Oompa-Loompa sized aisle, or the one who held up aisle traffic struggling to shove in my bag or the one who got to her seat in the back but couldn't find room and thus had to fight back up to the front to put it up over row 1. Of course, none of these catastrophes occurred but Probably aged ten years from anticipatory stress.
Also, there was security stress. In Richmond the TSA lady at the belt picked up my suitcase as it came out of the scanner and said, "Let's go over here," leading me to the nearby bench. I felt my heart drop. They'd found the scissors that I inexplicably brought to Denver. Or facewash # 2 had fallen out of the quart-size bag (PS, why oh why can't we use gallon-sized? Getting three days worth of toiletries into a quart size was like trying to do a Rubik's cube.) "Ohmygod" I said, as breathlessly as you'd expect. "DidIleavesomethinginmybagI'msosorryI'mjuststupid..." TSA lady looked at me bug-eyed. "Honey, I was just helping you move over here to feel less rushed," she told me.
Right.
cool as a cucumber, that's me. And not at ALL suspicious or shady.
You will not be surprised to hear after all that anxiety I checked my bag ont he way back. $25 of pure stress relief.
*I like people. Really, I do. I know I seem like a misanthrope of the Larry David variety, but it's not true! I work in a people profession, after all! When I do bitch about people, what I'm really bitching about is the chucklehead (or heads) who is making things harder for the rest of their species.
You run into a lot of these geniuses while traveling. On the trip to Denver, one man waited patiently until the announcement was made that all the overhead compartments were full, all passengers should be in their seats, and we were ready to take off. After that, he proceeded to stand up from his window seat and move up 5 rows to the empty window seat by his wife. But he wasn't content just to make all those other people move; he had to take his bag with him. That meant he had to open up the overhead compartment, remove his bag from its neatly packed position, bang it up the aisle (including into my shoulder--you see why I didn't want to be THAT girl), and attempt to jam it into the very full compartment over his new seat. He was not deterred by the flight attendant who came up behind him to re-explain the obvious fact that there was no room, nor by the tense overhead announcement that we would not be leaving the gate until all passengers were seated, nor by the incredible death glares shot his way by his fellow travelers. No, dammit, he was going to make it work, common sense, courtesy, and potential field marshalls be dammed. And by virtue of sheer strength and pure lack of consideration for the fellow bags, he did. He flashed a thumbs up sign to the cabin as he sat down, because clearly he had triumphed, and he was as smug as any chucklehead could be. I miraculously resisted the urge to shout out and tell him where he could stick that thumb. Grrr.
* Not to offend my friends from Texas, or who have different political views from mine, or both, but 3 hours in the Dallas-Fort Worth airport stuck listening to Fox News is pretty much my idea of Purgatory. If not Hell. I was ready to kill for some Muzak. Murder and mocking Fox News, definite grounds for damnation.
*Speaking of Texas, and my earlier statements on fashion, men out there, please stop it with the tight jeans. I can get behind the cowboy look. There's something downright charming about a Stetson. And the plaid button-down shirt thing is just fine (although in my opion, kind of an odd choice for bar-hopping). Even cowboy boots can be kind of hot, though I doubt they're practical for airport security. But the tight jeans are just a flat-out no-go.
For one thing, men can have muffin tops. Your beer belly does not look inherently sexier just because it is flopping over a high Wranglers waistband. Secondly, while a lot of my friends tell me they have no problem seeing denim super-snug on a man's rear end, I find it off-putting. This could be because I am in no way a "butt" girl--butts do not equal sexiness to men. (I am, for the record, a shoulders girl. Total sucker for broad, manly shoulders. Can't explain it, I just appreciate it, lol). But I also think it's wrong to know after one casual and unassuming glace to know if the man strutting by wears boxers or briefs. VPLs are not acceptable for either gender. Finally, my earlier point about skinny jeans (made about women) applies here as well. Isn't there an even higher chance of chafing for men? Like, ow. And ew. Just wear something witha little room.
And that is officially enough thinking about THAT.
* Philosophically and intellectually speaking, air travel is in a lot of ways so bizarre to me. I once heard a comedy bit by Louis C.K. about how funny it was that people bitch about not being able to use their cell phone while FLYING 300 MILES AN HOUR 20,000 FEET ABOVE THE EARTH. The point being, once something becomes commonplace, we get so used to it we forget the wonder and just focus on the annoying bits. I bitch about the times when my computer and cell phone blip on me--why don't I remember the 99% of the time where they make my life work so well in ways unthinkable 40 years ago??
To be fair, air travel nowadays does a lot of work towards taking the wonder away. This weekend, there were long layovers, delayed flights, baggage charges, a depressing lack of snacks, rude flight attendants, and so on and so forth. And it FEELS very inconvenient to drive 1.5 hours to Richmond, fly 3 hours to Dallas, wait 2 hours, fly 2 hours to Denver, then do it all again. On the other hand, you know what's REALLY inconvenient? Not being able to go to your friend's 30th birthday party because you don't have the time to drive cross-country.
The other part that's bizarre is how calmly thousands of people line up everyday to fly really high and really fast in metal cans controlled by people we've never met. I'm not really scared of flying. I understand, logically, why it works that a plane can take off and how it can stay in the air--engine power and thrust and Bernoulli's principle and all that. Landing is what freaks me out. All that height and all that speed stopping on 3 relatively tiny wheels? Mind-boggling. And scary.
I should admit here that physics is not my strong point. As in, I've never taken it. I did Advanced Biology senior year of high school instead, and my "science credit" in college was Psychology 101. Boo-yah. God I love liberal arts schools. The fact that I have a Masters of SCIENCE continues to amaze me every time I remember it. So, anyway, it's not surprising I don't really get how planes land. Still not sure it would make me feel better tho.
And yet, despite that, my fellow humans and I frequently volunteer--hell, PAY--to trust our lives to this made of transportation. I know that statistically car crashes are much more common, likely, and therefore more dangerous, but the idea of dropping out of the sky is much more compelling and terrifying. But it is common now, and the whole thing is just bizarre. And forget to appreciate how marvelous it is that's it's possible.
*So those are my thoughts on traveling. My favorite part of it is the candy in the airport (although let me say Snickers peanut butter bars are very disappointing. The peanut butter to caramel ratio is all wrong). Ok, actually my favorite part is the result, when I get to see people I love. So crazy people and airport stays aside, I think I'll keep flying.
Happy Tuesday :)
Sunday, July 24, 2011
The Kindle Dilemna
The other day I found myself having to kill time in Bethesda to wait out the Beltway traffic from gridlock to heavy, and so I wandered over to one of my favorite places, the downtown Barnes and Noble. As I wandered through the store, I found not one, not two, but three books I wanted. I had them all in my arms and was headed towards the checkout when I was struck with premature buyer’s remorse. As I may have mentioned, I’m moving next month (AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH) and I realized that I would be just adding more weight to my move.
Books are some of my favorite things. Which makes sense, since reading has been one of my favorite things since I made my first tentative solitary way through a Muppet Babies picture book in first grade. My mom has gotten used to me not hearing her the first time because my nose is in a book and Chris and Cary both give me a hard time, saying they can’t leave me alone for longer than 30 seconds before I find something to read. My book collection is suitably big. In my parents’ house I have over a hundred books stuffed into various bookcases—and (except for a six month relapse) I don’t even live there anymore! I’ve moved ridiculously heavy boxes of books up four flights of stairs in college, twelve hours down I-95 from Boston, and now I’m proposing to carry them to Baltimore. I have a certifiable book addiction, and while it’s not as bad as a coke addiction, it’s a lot heavier to move.
So the fact that I was given a Kindle for my birthday is not just generous but practical. But the fact that I now own a Kindle has brought up a huge moral dilemma for me. There are such pros and cons, it makes my head spin.
Kindles are practical. They don’t weigh anything, and they carry so many books! And while I don’t really live the greenest of lifestyles, I do appreciate the fact that saving trees through using less paper is a good thing. And, not to be forgotten in this time of less-than-flushness, books tend to be cheaper on a Kindle than in full-size.
But I LOVE books. No matter what those annoying commercials say, you can’t get the sensory experience of a book through a Kindle. Clicking a button is not the same as turning a page. And as a certified nerd who has spent years highlighting lines in books, clicking a little note with a cursor does nothing for me. Also, as a nearly obsessive re-reader, flipping back through a book is much easier and more enjoyable than clicking back through the pages of a Kindle. Finally, there are some downsides to technology—all of those “make life simpler” tech things seem to end up making life more complicated when they mystically stop working! For example, from my own experience: this is what a Kindle looks like when it’s been stepped on:
And this is what one of my favorite books looks like when it’s been stepped on:
You see the benefits of the old fashioned way of life.
Plus, I love bookstores. I can, and have, spend hours inside them, wandering around, enjoying the temperature control and the free restrooms, dabbling in every kind of book I could ever want to read. I for one was a big Borders fan, and I am so sad they are closing!!! I have Borders that mean something to me—the one on Boylston Ave around the corner from the Hand M in Boston, the one in Friendship Heights, the one in Hilltop—and they are all going to be gone! I don’t want bookstores to go the way of record stores. So I think it’s important to buy books, actual honest books, before we’re all just using the ITunes of reading. But who can I count on to do that if even I—book and bookstore lover—choose to buy on Kindle than in the store? I feel like such a traitor.
When I got home, I realized one of the books I wanted was not available on Kindle. So I guess I will be going back to the bookstore. I guess that’s the best of both worlds. And I guess I will have to continue to balance my loyalties, because I’d hate for the book gods to find me out!
Speaking of unreasonable attachments, I have finally started packing (AAAAAHHHHHHHH) and as I always have to do, went through a lot of my clothes to find the ones I never wear and should donate to Goodwill. And like I do every single time I do it, I got all teary-eyed. Does that happen to anyone else out there? Surely someone else out there has a hard time picking out clothes the want to give away? Ok, so maybe I haven’t worn that H&M shirt for two years because it got magically too tight in the chest and has a mystery stain on the stomach and kind of makes me look pregnant, but I had good times in that shirt. I wore it in Mexico City visiting Freddie, I have pictures of me wearing it with Karen at the Zoo in DC, and I went on a darn good date in it. By putting it in a pile and acknowledging I’m never going to see it again, to me it feels like I'm acknowledging that those good times it represented are over. This is why I’m a packrat, and terrible at packing, and all that; I have too good a memory (who remembers what shirt they wore when?!?!?) and am hopelessly sentimental.
Luckily I can blame this on my parents—as Calvin of Calvin and Hobbes posits when asked why he committed some horrible mischief, “Poor genetic material?” First of all, they are pretty darn good packrats themselves. Second of all, they love Mary Chapin Carpenter, and she has a song that I listened too all of the time as a kid and it explains the exact same attitude I have about my clothes and my books—
This Shirt, by MCC
This shirt is old and faded
All the color's washed away
I've had it now for more damn years
Than I can count anyway
I wear it beneath my jacket
With the collar turned up high
So old I should replace it
But I'm not about to try
This shirt's got silver buttons
And a place upon the sleeve
Where I used to set my heart up
Right there anyone could see
This shirt is the one I wore to every boring high school dance
Where the boys ignored the girls
And we all pretended to like the band
This shirt was a pillow for my head
On a train through Italy
This shirt was a blanket beneath the love
We made in Argeles
This shirt was lost for three whole days
In a town near Buffalo
'Till I found the locker key
In a downtown Trailways bus depot
This shirt was the one I lent you
And when you gave it back
There was a rip inside the sleeve
Where you rolled your cigarettes
It was the place I put my heart
Now look at where you put a tear
I forgave your thoughtlessness
But not the boy who put it there
This shirt was the place your cat
Decided to give birth to five
And we stayed up all night watching
And we wept when the last one died
This shirt is just an old faded piece of cotton
Shining like the memories
Inside those silver buttons
This shirt is a grand old relic
With a grand old history
I wear it now for Sunday chores
Cleaning house and raking leaves
I wear it beneath my jacket
With the collar turned up high
So old I should replace it
But I'm not about to try
Not to be overly somber, but when so much of life is losing involuntarily or good things ending, it is difficult not to want to cling to whatever you can, even if it’s just a stupid $10 shirt. But I must move (AAAAHHHHHHHHHHH), and I must not hurt my back or pay movers extra to move things that I do not use or need—and in the case of my clothes, could be used by people who do need them. So I will continue to collect Goodwill things and buy books on Kindle. And to try to remember that every parting or ending is necessary for new meetings and beginnings. Or, you know, more shopping trips. Since now I have a bunch of empty hangers. Mwahahaha.
Finally, on a real note, several of my dear friends are having troubles much greater than Goodwill-remorse—specifically, they have family members who are struggling with serious health issues. Please send mental hugs and all the good wishes you can spare to them and their loved ones!
Love to you all, and stay cool!
Books are some of my favorite things. Which makes sense, since reading has been one of my favorite things since I made my first tentative solitary way through a Muppet Babies picture book in first grade. My mom has gotten used to me not hearing her the first time because my nose is in a book and Chris and Cary both give me a hard time, saying they can’t leave me alone for longer than 30 seconds before I find something to read. My book collection is suitably big. In my parents’ house I have over a hundred books stuffed into various bookcases—and (except for a six month relapse) I don’t even live there anymore! I’ve moved ridiculously heavy boxes of books up four flights of stairs in college, twelve hours down I-95 from Boston, and now I’m proposing to carry them to Baltimore. I have a certifiable book addiction, and while it’s not as bad as a coke addiction, it’s a lot heavier to move.
So the fact that I was given a Kindle for my birthday is not just generous but practical. But the fact that I now own a Kindle has brought up a huge moral dilemma for me. There are such pros and cons, it makes my head spin.
Kindles are practical. They don’t weigh anything, and they carry so many books! And while I don’t really live the greenest of lifestyles, I do appreciate the fact that saving trees through using less paper is a good thing. And, not to be forgotten in this time of less-than-flushness, books tend to be cheaper on a Kindle than in full-size.
But I LOVE books. No matter what those annoying commercials say, you can’t get the sensory experience of a book through a Kindle. Clicking a button is not the same as turning a page. And as a certified nerd who has spent years highlighting lines in books, clicking a little note with a cursor does nothing for me. Also, as a nearly obsessive re-reader, flipping back through a book is much easier and more enjoyable than clicking back through the pages of a Kindle. Finally, there are some downsides to technology—all of those “make life simpler” tech things seem to end up making life more complicated when they mystically stop working! For example, from my own experience: this is what a Kindle looks like when it’s been stepped on:
And this is what one of my favorite books looks like when it’s been stepped on:
You see the benefits of the old fashioned way of life.
Plus, I love bookstores. I can, and have, spend hours inside them, wandering around, enjoying the temperature control and the free restrooms, dabbling in every kind of book I could ever want to read. I for one was a big Borders fan, and I am so sad they are closing!!! I have Borders that mean something to me—the one on Boylston Ave around the corner from the Hand M in Boston, the one in Friendship Heights, the one in Hilltop—and they are all going to be gone! I don’t want bookstores to go the way of record stores. So I think it’s important to buy books, actual honest books, before we’re all just using the ITunes of reading. But who can I count on to do that if even I—book and bookstore lover—choose to buy on Kindle than in the store? I feel like such a traitor.
When I got home, I realized one of the books I wanted was not available on Kindle. So I guess I will be going back to the bookstore. I guess that’s the best of both worlds. And I guess I will have to continue to balance my loyalties, because I’d hate for the book gods to find me out!
Speaking of unreasonable attachments, I have finally started packing (AAAAAHHHHHHHH) and as I always have to do, went through a lot of my clothes to find the ones I never wear and should donate to Goodwill. And like I do every single time I do it, I got all teary-eyed. Does that happen to anyone else out there? Surely someone else out there has a hard time picking out clothes the want to give away? Ok, so maybe I haven’t worn that H&M shirt for two years because it got magically too tight in the chest and has a mystery stain on the stomach and kind of makes me look pregnant, but I had good times in that shirt. I wore it in Mexico City visiting Freddie, I have pictures of me wearing it with Karen at the Zoo in DC, and I went on a darn good date in it. By putting it in a pile and acknowledging I’m never going to see it again, to me it feels like I'm acknowledging that those good times it represented are over. This is why I’m a packrat, and terrible at packing, and all that; I have too good a memory (who remembers what shirt they wore when?!?!?) and am hopelessly sentimental.
Luckily I can blame this on my parents—as Calvin of Calvin and Hobbes posits when asked why he committed some horrible mischief, “Poor genetic material?” First of all, they are pretty darn good packrats themselves. Second of all, they love Mary Chapin Carpenter, and she has a song that I listened too all of the time as a kid and it explains the exact same attitude I have about my clothes and my books—
This Shirt, by MCC
This shirt is old and faded
All the color's washed away
I've had it now for more damn years
Than I can count anyway
I wear it beneath my jacket
With the collar turned up high
So old I should replace it
But I'm not about to try
This shirt's got silver buttons
And a place upon the sleeve
Where I used to set my heart up
Right there anyone could see
This shirt is the one I wore to every boring high school dance
Where the boys ignored the girls
And we all pretended to like the band
This shirt was a pillow for my head
On a train through Italy
This shirt was a blanket beneath the love
We made in Argeles
This shirt was lost for three whole days
In a town near Buffalo
'Till I found the locker key
In a downtown Trailways bus depot
This shirt was the one I lent you
And when you gave it back
There was a rip inside the sleeve
Where you rolled your cigarettes
It was the place I put my heart
Now look at where you put a tear
I forgave your thoughtlessness
But not the boy who put it there
This shirt was the place your cat
Decided to give birth to five
And we stayed up all night watching
And we wept when the last one died
This shirt is just an old faded piece of cotton
Shining like the memories
Inside those silver buttons
This shirt is a grand old relic
With a grand old history
I wear it now for Sunday chores
Cleaning house and raking leaves
I wear it beneath my jacket
With the collar turned up high
So old I should replace it
But I'm not about to try
Not to be overly somber, but when so much of life is losing involuntarily or good things ending, it is difficult not to want to cling to whatever you can, even if it’s just a stupid $10 shirt. But I must move (AAAAHHHHHHHHHHH), and I must not hurt my back or pay movers extra to move things that I do not use or need—and in the case of my clothes, could be used by people who do need them. So I will continue to collect Goodwill things and buy books on Kindle. And to try to remember that every parting or ending is necessary for new meetings and beginnings. Or, you know, more shopping trips. Since now I have a bunch of empty hangers. Mwahahaha.
Finally, on a real note, several of my dear friends are having troubles much greater than Goodwill-remorse—specifically, they have family members who are struggling with serious health issues. Please send mental hugs and all the good wishes you can spare to them and their loved ones!
Love to you all, and stay cool!
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Sunday Randoms
This afternoon I found my distinctive favorite pair of underwear on the floor of my parking garage. Disturbing. More disturbing? I'd packed them to take to spend the night dogsitting Wally on THURSDAY night. So, unless my math is wrong, they've been lying on the floor of my parking garage since Friday afternoon. About 48 hours. Eeek. At least the neighbors don't KNOW they've seen my underwear?
*************************************
Today I went to get a massage. I have three saved free massages built up and only 4 weeks to use them in…um, speaking of, I’m moving. To Maryland. In about a month. AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH. Too…overwhelmed…can’t….talk…about…moving… so stay tuned. Details to follow.
Anyway, me, massage. Since I had Steven the Sk8ter Boi with the hands of gold, I’ve been sticking with male masseuses. What can I say, I like firm massages (not a euphemism.) Today, though, I had Michelle. Not to fret though, Michelle might have been skinny, but her hands were about the size of my head, and she had some strength going for her. She was thrilled to find out that I was an OT and would understand her anatomical terms. So she proceeded to systematically find and “release” my pressure points and narrate what is so wrong with my body that my back is consistently one giant knot.
First of all, I am medially rotated all down my spine but particularly in my scapular region. Second of all, my IT bands on both thighs are abnormally and inexplicably tight. Finally, to end on a positive note, while my right back muscles are way tighter than my left back muscles, overall I present with a well-maintained, very balanced body structure. See that, I am capable of balance! At least musculoskeletally.
Related to that, Michelle must have had to tell me to relax 15 times in one hour. Obviously it is hard to be relaxed when your pisiform muscle is being forcefully manually “released” by a woman with man hands, but even when she wasn’t working on me she had to tell me to relax because my body’s natural state is just short of stretched rubber band in terms of laxity. I started to explain about how at work today I had one woman burst into tears at the mention of therapy, another man say “Why should I put on underwear when I’m not going anywhere?” and another man overflow a bedpan with a massive bowel movement, and to tell her that I was moving (AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH), and so on and so forth, but even thinking the sentences made my arms curl back up like stretched Slinkies, so I just stayed silent. And listened to the wind chimes in the music like Michelle told me to.
Anyway, so in order to be less medially rotated and knotted and tight, I am to do daily hip rotator stretches, spend 10 minutes a day with my spine propped on a rolled towel with my arms out to the sides ala Tickle-Me-Elmo to “open up” my pectorals, and to lie with a bag of ice under my right rhomboid every night right before bed. Feel free to enjoy those mental images. And, as you might have guessed, I left the massage not so much relaxed as feeling EXTREMELY educated.
*******************************************
Yesterday I walked around UVA's Grounds and managed to crash not 1 but 3 weddings. I did not, however, party like a champion.
******************************************
So, in my mind, mentally going through my closet and thinking which clothes I am donating to Goodwill and carrying in my coworker's generously donated boxes from my car into my apartment counts as packing. So I have officially started packing. Go me!
*******************************************
Finally, a Lulu kiss to say goodnight. Have a good week!
*************************************
Today I went to get a massage. I have three saved free massages built up and only 4 weeks to use them in…um, speaking of, I’m moving. To Maryland. In about a month. AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH. Too…overwhelmed…can’t….talk…about…moving… so stay tuned. Details to follow.
Anyway, me, massage. Since I had Steven the Sk8ter Boi with the hands of gold, I’ve been sticking with male masseuses. What can I say, I like firm massages (not a euphemism.) Today, though, I had Michelle. Not to fret though, Michelle might have been skinny, but her hands were about the size of my head, and she had some strength going for her. She was thrilled to find out that I was an OT and would understand her anatomical terms. So she proceeded to systematically find and “release” my pressure points and narrate what is so wrong with my body that my back is consistently one giant knot.
First of all, I am medially rotated all down my spine but particularly in my scapular region. Second of all, my IT bands on both thighs are abnormally and inexplicably tight. Finally, to end on a positive note, while my right back muscles are way tighter than my left back muscles, overall I present with a well-maintained, very balanced body structure. See that, I am capable of balance! At least musculoskeletally.
Related to that, Michelle must have had to tell me to relax 15 times in one hour. Obviously it is hard to be relaxed when your pisiform muscle is being forcefully manually “released” by a woman with man hands, but even when she wasn’t working on me she had to tell me to relax because my body’s natural state is just short of stretched rubber band in terms of laxity. I started to explain about how at work today I had one woman burst into tears at the mention of therapy, another man say “Why should I put on underwear when I’m not going anywhere?” and another man overflow a bedpan with a massive bowel movement, and to tell her that I was moving (AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH), and so on and so forth, but even thinking the sentences made my arms curl back up like stretched Slinkies, so I just stayed silent. And listened to the wind chimes in the music like Michelle told me to.
Anyway, so in order to be less medially rotated and knotted and tight, I am to do daily hip rotator stretches, spend 10 minutes a day with my spine propped on a rolled towel with my arms out to the sides ala Tickle-Me-Elmo to “open up” my pectorals, and to lie with a bag of ice under my right rhomboid every night right before bed. Feel free to enjoy those mental images. And, as you might have guessed, I left the massage not so much relaxed as feeling EXTREMELY educated.
*******************************************
Yesterday I walked around UVA's Grounds and managed to crash not 1 but 3 weddings. I did not, however, party like a champion.
******************************************
So, in my mind, mentally going through my closet and thinking which clothes I am donating to Goodwill and carrying in my coworker's generously donated boxes from my car into my apartment counts as packing. So I have officially started packing. Go me!
*******************************************
Finally, a Lulu kiss to say goodnight. Have a good week!
Monday, July 11, 2011
Monday Randoms.
The 7/11 slurpee may be my favorite chemical-based drink of all time. Especially when it's FREE!!!
You get used to the freedom of living alone--walking around in states of undress, eating bizarre things at weird times, doing totally unpretty-looking workouts, talking to cats, etc. But when you attempt to glide gracefully onto your yoga ball as part of a core-building exercise and manage to fly off ass over teakettle and land halfway across the room with your legs where your arms should be, you kind of feel torn between being glad no one was watching and wishing someone was there to laugh with you; physical comedy of that sort should never be wasted.
You know you've been single too long when the last man to call you "baby" is your cognitively impaired patient. Related note: said patient, when he thought I asked him to do something he'd already done, exclaimed in long-suffering tones, "I already did that, baby!" Which was his one and only coherent sentence of the entire session. Nice to know spousal exasperation can survive profound global aphasia.
Self-affirmation of the day: Whatever poor decisions I've made in the past, I am proud to announce that I have never had sex on a golf course with a married (not to me) woman dressed as an M and M. I met someone this weekend who told me that story about themselves and I thought, wow, now I'm feeling much better about my life choices!
I have 23 days of work left. Crikey!!!
And finally, I think the secret of life is learning how to perfectly fit the sunbeam:
Love to all.
You get used to the freedom of living alone--walking around in states of undress, eating bizarre things at weird times, doing totally unpretty-looking workouts, talking to cats, etc. But when you attempt to glide gracefully onto your yoga ball as part of a core-building exercise and manage to fly off ass over teakettle and land halfway across the room with your legs where your arms should be, you kind of feel torn between being glad no one was watching and wishing someone was there to laugh with you; physical comedy of that sort should never be wasted.
You know you've been single too long when the last man to call you "baby" is your cognitively impaired patient. Related note: said patient, when he thought I asked him to do something he'd already done, exclaimed in long-suffering tones, "I already did that, baby!" Which was his one and only coherent sentence of the entire session. Nice to know spousal exasperation can survive profound global aphasia.
Self-affirmation of the day: Whatever poor decisions I've made in the past, I am proud to announce that I have never had sex on a golf course with a married (not to me) woman dressed as an M and M. I met someone this weekend who told me that story about themselves and I thought, wow, now I'm feeling much better about my life choices!
I have 23 days of work left. Crikey!!!
And finally, I think the secret of life is learning how to perfectly fit the sunbeam:
Love to all.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)