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The Home Stretch

22 Dec

This would be a lot more satisfying if I had the other months shown too. Pretend there are 11 more of these.

I was going to write a post today about how I was away from my computer until now, driving toward the northerly patches of New York.  I was going to talk about how I checked my email with great excitement only to find Groupon, Barack Obama, and Living Social.  They aren’t even interested in me.  They just want me to be interested in them.  And so on and so forth until I whine about how I expected to be more important and am constantly let down, like when you turn your phone off all day and when you turn it back on, you’re somehow still kind of disappointed that you don’t have a lot of badgering to reply to.

But I already wrote about all that before.

Isn’t that crazy? I genuinely forgot all about it.  Oh.  Maybe that’s because this is my 356th daily post in a row and that’s the official number of topics I can write before I loop back again.   Now we know.

Oh yeah – hey! I only have, like, nine posts left.  NINE.  I’m getting a lot of “hey how do you feel”, etc.  And with the holidays coming up, I’m sure that my frequent obligations to have human contact will result in that happening more often.  So because I’m already socially awkward enough without people approaching me, allow me to squelch as much of it as possible right now by saying it feels like pressure.  Not pressure to write, exactly.  I felt that for the first three months but after I realized that I had to write whether it was crap or not, I just kind of let it go and wrote whatever I could squeeze out.  Some people call that giving up.  I call it stream-of-consciousness.  I like my term better.  

When I say it feels like pressure, I mean pressure, like, not to die.  Or get terribly ill.  Or break my hands. Or do anything that would make me miss a day and thus require me to start all over again. If I’m repeating post ideas at number 356, can you imagine what a load of fantastical junk 2012 would bring?  Honestly, how many more times can I write about my cats before you unsubscribe?   Maybe twice.  And I’m probably going to cash in on those two this week.

There is perhaps a slight bit of pressure in the area of writing quality, just because I started my official holiday vacation yesterday at 8pm and won’t return to reality until January 3rd: a full two days after my daily posting is shut down.  Every day until then is going to be filled with food, family, sleeping, shenanigans, and fantasizing about never having to return to work again.  

It’s unlikely that my posts will be any good. 

But let’s be honest: you’re not going to read.  Some of you are going to read because you’ve got this whole I-haven’t-missed-a-Jackie-post-yet thing going.  And that’s super flattering and I’d really like to send you a warm puppy in the mail so you can understand how that makes me feel inside.  But aside from you few, the majority of my readers will disappear into the land of egg nog and Auld Lang Syne, never to even see me cross the finish line.

So maybe we can strike a mutually beneficial deal here.  I’ll try not to feel pressured to write anything of substance these next 9 days, and you, in turn, can feel no pressure to tune in to read what is bound to be pretty terrible. 

Deal.

Wow – seriously though.  Nine days.

Good thing – I feel carpal tunnel coming on. ♣

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Dear Post Office: This Is Why You’re Failing

21 Dec

Ah, graffiti. The fronds of malcontent.

Okay, to be fair, I’m sure you’re failing for lots of reasons.  A lot of them don’t have anything to do with you.  Online banking, email, and a general love and desire for more trees in the world among them.  Maybe something to do with the economy.  Maybe.  But I don’t know anything about economics.   All I know is you manage to complicate the shipping process beyond all human comprehension, and there is not one single post office in my area that doesn’t have a hell demon working the front desk when I visit.

Ever.

You see, I’m the kind of person that accepts that certain branches might just have a sour staff.  Perhaps they’re overworked or understaffed or generally malcontent.  Maybe everyone in the office is really quite lovely but the person who works the shift that I always chance to visit during is just a grumplepuss.  There are lots of things that could align themselves on any particular day that lead to an unsatisfactory visit. I accept these as challenges in the business place for which I cannot possible hold you accountable.  Sometimes there’s a bad egg that gets through the production process.  I understand. Really.  But I have visited no less than three offices in and around my neighborhood and not a single one has a pleasant person at the front desk.

Ever.  Do you hear me? Ever.

Listen: my mom works at the post office.  She’s been a loyal worker bee for well over a decade.  Because of this, I am wont to go easy on the post office folk. They have a rough gig.   That’s why I know the answers to their questions in advance (no, I’m not shipping a ferret, a bottle of  arsenic, or a box of anthrax, yes I do want delivery confirmation but not insurance), do my very best to be well-prepared before I make it to the counter, and when there’s a line, I remind myself that the post office has a lot of business to tend to during the day – most of which happens far behind the front counter.

I even try to be an advocate for the post office, and when I have a poor experience I go to usps.com and let you know.  But you don’t really want to improve.  I know this because when I go online and detailed my experience earlier this year when there were three people at the front desk, only one of whom was doing any work, the other two who were laughing and discussing procedures for Passports, and the one woman who was working was loudly complaining about her work conditions while a line containing half my neighborhood was bending out the door, you wrote back some garbledy gook about how the post office is busy and has peak hours and you’re doing your best.

That’s a bit defensive, post office, don’t you think?  You see, I want to be constructive.  I want to help you solve your problems.  I want to help you understand that when people can make the choice to go online to do all their business (or UPS, or FedEx, who you yourself do business with), they expect you to treat them well when they pay you a visit.   But I can’t help you if you’re in denial.

So let’s get real: ya’ll need to get some better customer service.

I still have to call my mother to figure out what ships where for how much and how big it can be.  Or what kind of paper it has to be wrapped in.  Or what happens if I answer the hazardous/liquid/fragile question with a yes.   You’ve got a very complicated system going on.

Now, I know you recognized this for a moment and attempted to put in self-service package centers in some of your lobbies, and I really appreciate that.  You also did the “if it fits, it ships” campaign with the flat rate boxes.  But let’s be honest: while that’s a good deal if I’m going to send a shoebox full of heavy metals from East Coast to West, it’s not the most cost-effective option if I want to send, say, a stuffed animal.

So why don’t you just have a person in the lobby to assist with these sorts of things? Why can’t I just put a banana on the counter and ask you to ship it for me? I don’t care if I have to pay a service fee.  I don’t care if I have to answer questions about the origin of my banana and my intent in shipping it.  I’d be so thrilled to talk to someone who is pleasant and wants to help me figure out how to get my banana from one place to the next in the most cost-effective, logical manner possible that I’d happily stand in line if you were understaffed, overworked, or – say – going bankrupt.

You know what? Not even a week ago I had a friend tweet about how she stood in line for a very long time just to get a book of stamps.  She didn’t know she could go online to order, get them from a brochure, or have them delivered to her by her postal carrier.

Hey: you know what you have to do.  You know what the problems are.  We’re confused, you’re over-complicated.  We’re busy and you don’t have the time for us.  We want to give you our money and keep you going, but not if you’re going to give us attitude and tell us how much you hate your situation while we do it.  So just put some smiling, patient faces at that counter, give us a shipping specialist with a heart of gold, and start spending your time educating people about how easy it is to order stamps from home so they get the heck out of line.

I’ve got stuff to mail. ♣

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Code Monkey Like You

20 Dec

Wow, we only have two Lollipop Tuesdays left together. 

Are you sad? I’m not sad.   Tell ya what – I won’t miss scrambling around the Sunday and Monday before, trying to consider whether or not I can assemble a tub of Jell-O in time or whether this is the week I take a shifty looking stranger out to dinner  or whether I finally let one of my readers pepper spray me in the face. 

Yes, that’s real.

So, I figure that with only two left (and now, only one), I kind of owe you something epic.  And while skydiving crossed my mind, I can’t imagine that’s affordable, able to be done in the winter, or in the best interest of my well-being. So instead, I directed a movie.

Now, I didn’t direct this in a weekend.  In fact, I’ve been working on this for over a year and finally got it finished.  It started out as a small summer project that my friend asked me direct.  It kind of snowballed into this…thing.  We decided to film it so we could throw it on YouTube, and at some point thought that maybe we could raise some money for a charity while we did it.  

There’s a lot of other fun stuff in there, like 3 different editors, a producer moving halfway through the process, a budget of only $300, so on and so forth – but this isn’t a post about the trials and tribulations of low budget film-making.  It’s post about how I directed my first film project.  In true nerdy nerd fashion, it’s a script based on the music and ideas of Jonathan Coulton, who has a sort of cult following among the geek world.  The script is weaved around concepts from his songs.  The name of the production company is Vs. the Universe.  It’s slogan: Geeks Making Art.  And along with showing our 20-minute venture on YouTube, we’re also running a 30-day campaign for Child’s Play Charity, which works to put video game consoles in the hospital rooms of sick kids so that when they’re hooked up to machines and tubes and contraptions of all kinds, they can get lost in the idea of racing a go-kart instead of focusing on the pain and the confines of their hospital bed.

Oh, and Dave’s in it.

Yeah, that’s right: if you watch this sucker, you get to see Dave.  My Dave.  Dave from the story books of The Jackie Blog.  He plays Mr. Kenesaw.

So thanks for reading all year long.  I can’t believe I’m almost at the end.  One more Lollipop Tuesday to go – and an announcement of the winner of the Best Macaroni and Cheese in the World Contest, who will be the proud owner of a $25 Visa Gift Card.

While I work on that, check out my first attempt at film directing.  And if you feel so inclined this holiday season, consider a donation to Child’s Play Charities. We offer fun incentives like writing a song or a puppet show just for you.

That’s right: just for you.

So here’s my first attempt at directing, my first attempt at a fundraiser, and my first attempt at a musical.  Oh.  Did I mention it’s a musical?  Also, there’s a naked butt in it.

Happy Lollipop Tuesday, ya’ll.  Enjoy. ♣

 
Head over to thisguyandi.com if you’d like to see the incentive levels and make a tax-deductible donation.  We’ve already met 10% of our goal! 

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World, Meet My Butt

19 Dec

the hot new exercise trend

I am now the proud owner of a pair of super skin-tight, inappropriate workout pants.

I’m a little scared of them, actually.

Dave did this adorable thing yesterday when we were running errands in the afternoon where he would try to gauge my interest in the things I got distracted by to see if they would be appropriate Christmas gifts.  There’s a new athletic store that just came in right across from my favorite ice cream store (I know – rude) that I wanted to check out.  Inside were lots of super awesome looking, incredibly effective bits of workout gear.  I wouldn’t normally be excited for such a store, but I ran in the snow the other night and was a lot colder throughout the experience than I would have preferred – so I was up for anything that could solve my problems, especially if it was actually somewhat attractive.

Right now I’m wearing so many frumpy, misshapen layers that I look like the Junk Lady from Labyrinth. 

The Junk Lady: In case you're lost on my obscure cult classic references.

Dave encouraged me to try on a few things in spite of their jaw-dropping price tags and I instantly fell in love with two pieces. One was a fleece-lined sweatshirt with thumbholes and a built in neck scarf that was so simultaneously cozy and badass I could have fallen asleep in it and then woke up to run in it.  The other was the most serious pair of pants I’ve ever donned.  Fleece-lined, padded with some sort of magic wonder fibers, and lined with little hidden zippers and pockets for things I might need to tuck away while I run.

They were also super form-fitting.  Tight.  Like, hey-I-painted-my-buttocks-with-black-paint-and-went-for-a-run tight.

I would never in a million years imagine myself going out in public in them.  I considered not even opening the fitting room door to show Dave.  The second I did, the sales associate working the fitting counter perked up like she’d just come off a Bikram yoga high and shouted about how awesome they looked on me.  It took a lot for me to hold back from saying something snarky.  I’m surprised the pants even came in my size, as I had to sort through to the very back of the rack to acquire them.   I made a comment about how they were a little too form-fitting for me and that I didn’t know if I could leave the house in them.  She responded that everyone says that and that they don’t really make anything that isn’t form fitting.

Something related to their hiring requirements, I suppose.

At any rate, there I was in what felt like my underoos, staring at a size negative 2 and thinking about the ice cream I ate before I came in to try on these spray-painted-on leggings.  And even though I should have felt like a fatty fat and told myself to rip them off quickly before anyone else saw me and suffered a stroke from the shock, I had to admit that they were incredibly comfortable.  And warm.  And the answer to all of my winter-running problems.

I told myself I run in the early morning or late at night and no one would be able to see me in them anyway.  I also told myself that maybe the fact that people can clearly see the location of my butt crack would inspire me to run faster, as to blur the details of my rearend in a flash of speed.

I looked at every mirror angle possible and agreed that the pants were not flattering in any of them, but I was shopping for function and not form and would do as I pleased.  There was a small part of me that mentioned I’d be running for another 6 weeks yet and somewhere in there, I’d eventually start to look better in them.  So I stared at the super comfy sweater that looked great on me and made me want to sleep and run at the same time and then again back at my super tight, super inappropriate pants.

And I chose the pants.

Dave managed to pick up the tab on what was a perfect Christmas gift because it inspired me to do better, supported my current goal, and would stop my legs from being beet red when I return from a chilly run.  The pants were an all-encompassing gift of love and henceforth they shall be painted on to my buttocks to enhance the appearance of jiggliness while I run.  Maybe after I make it to week 7, I can go back for the sweatshirt as a reward.

I’ll just have to make it a size long enough to pull down over my butt cheeks. ♣

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Free Lola

18 Dec

This morning I woke up to my cat leaping over my face like Free Willy.

I was nestling in the arms of sweet, warm slumber when I heard the jingle of a small bell and felt the woosh of air over my face (along with the slight brush of fur from her floppy feline stomach).  By the time I fully came to, the tinkle of her bell was across the room and she was casually poised by the doorway as if just entering the room.

Lies.

Ever wake up to a cat looming over you? I have. It's terrifying.

I think sometimes of how I’d like to set up a small camera over my bed so that I can see what my cats do while I’m sleeping.  I’m sure they exhibit a variety of unacceptable behaviors that would just further enrage me.  I read somewhere that people who let their pets sleep with them have their sleep disturbed a lot more throughout the evening than those who do not.  I thought it made a lot of sense and decided to close my bedroom door from that day forward so as to drinking the nectar of slumber in peace.  But Lola pawed the door to bump it and make this ever so slight thudding sound that I would hear just as I was drifting to sleep.  I would try to wait her out, convinced that if I just ignored it she would give up and go away.  But she’s stubborn and when I didn’t open to door in response to her pawing, she scratched.

It’s hard to sleep when you’re envisioning your security deposit burning up in hellfire.

So of course I let her in, knowing full well that all I did was validate her actions.  From then on she knew that even if it took a full fifteen minutes to get me to do so, she would get in.

And now she Free Willys over my face at night.  So there’s that.

I think this will be the beginning of a lengthy experiment.  How can I get my cats to leave me alone when I’m sleeping without waking me up from desperate pawing, scratching, meowing, or other enraging behaviors?  I predict it will involve a lot of cat nip.  I’m not above drugging them.

Let’s hope this isn’t indicative of my future parenting methods.♣

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All Hail the Master

17 Dec

Today, my dad graduated with his masters degree.

Isn’t that epic?  The man is over 50 years old.  When he made the decision to school and get his undergrad, I was getting mine and I’m his youngest kid.  We even had a class together, because I wasn’t about to pass up that opportunity. I also almost convinced him to come audition with me for the school play.  I still maintain that he could have made a stellar Oberon.

It’s taken something like ten years from start to finish, but he now has a terminal degree in his field.  It’s been a long journey for us all – but particularly me because I proofread his papers.  His thesis damn near killed me.  And today marked the official day that it is truly all over.  

I don’t know what I expected of myself from attending.  I knew I’d be proud – who wouldn’t be? I knew that I was excited, of course.  But I didn’t expect that when he came through the door to the auditorium, I would instantly weep. 

My dad’s not the kind of guy to really go outside his comfort zone.  If I wanted to get on a plush, awkwardly shaped half-couch and talk about the roots of things, I’d say my inclination to stay inside, not call people I know, and generally write off the rest of mankind is a direct result of following the pattern he set for me.  He didn’t go to the ceremony for his undergrad.  Partially because he didn’t think anything was worth celebrating until he got all the way through, and partially because it was probably uncomfortable to imagine going through all the pomp and circumstance alongside a bunch of 20-somethings.  

So since this was his first (and last) chance to celebrate, I was inclined to do all the stereotypical congratulatory acts.  I wanted to get him stupid mugs and balloons and books and magnets with inspiring quotes on them.  I wanted to ask him what he thought he would do when he grows up and tell him that he had his whole life ahead of him.  But since I was pretty sure that would provoke him to cause me physical harm, I resolved to just scream at the top of my lungs when they called his name to walk.  

Ah yes - the obligatory graduate bear. One never knows what to do with him, but stores keep selling him, people keep buying him, and graduates keep stuffing them in memento boxes.

 

The older lady in a fashion blazer and too-hairsprayed hair in front of me really didn’t appreciate my contribution.

But I didn’t really care about Blazer, because when her daughter walked, she did a little half-yelp.  She looked like she wanted to do more but she just couldn’t pull herself out of social formalities for even just a moment.  I’m sure her half-yelp gave her a thrill, but I needed more.  It was all I could do to hold back shouting “GO DADDY!!!!!!!! WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” – but I thought that might embarrass him so I cut off the “go daddy” portion and delivered the rest right into Blazer’s ear.

Turns out, I could have yelled anything I darn well pleased because dad didn’t hear any of it.  He was the first in line for the MFA degrees and had to set the precedent for where to walk and how to get hooded.  He was following arrows on the floor and being shepherded to the appropriate locations for pictures, handshakes, and degree-conferring.  Everything after his name announcement was a blackout.

I think that’s adorable.

I absolutely could not contain my joy to see him all suited up in a cap, gown, and draping hood behind.  The fact that this man saw his goal through all the way to the end and finished as grandfather to the two little babies who were in the back row is amazing to me. And the fact that someday soon he’ll have his own office on a campus and touch the lives of a myriad of students who will learn and talk about how totally cool my dad is? Well, there are just no words that can express my excitement and pride.

So congratulations to my fantastic and amazing father, who on this 17th day of December in the 2011th year of our Lord was hooded in an official ceremony to indicate how badass he is. 

That’s one heck of a Lollipop Tuesday. ◊

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‘Tis the Season for Work Holiday Parties

16 Dec

Work holiday parties. Amirite?

So, last time this year I had just gotten my feet wet in the ponds of the corporate jungle. (Are there ponds in jungles?  I digress.) I was new to my department and I was still hourly so I could get out of quite a few obligatory holiday party invitations.  Some happened at night and I couldn’t work overtime, some happened during the day but I only had so many hours to complete a specific amount of work, and so on and so forth until I wiggled my way out of every possible outing.

This year, the game has changed.

I’m salary now, and my feet are no longer wet.  I’m fully submerged and drowning in the awkwardness of obligatory holiday parties.  Office creatures love food.  They adore it – they are almost entirely sustained on meetings, lunches, coffee breaks, communal candy bowls, and impromptu snack suggestions.  So naturally, they take kindly to gatherings of any sort that are wrought with food.

Better yet: food that can be written off as a business expense.

I’ve been invited to no less than eight holiday gatherings so far and it isn’t even the week of Christmas.  I’ve been unable to get out of four of them.  I have a 50% dodge rate, which in the corporate forest, is pretty good odds.

There are creatures who thrive on the suggestion of simultaneous mingling and food chomping. “Networking”, they call it.  I’m not really into it.  I don’t really want people to know who I am or what I do.  In my experience, the more people who know you and your position, the more people call on you to do things.  Since I’m an assistant to a high-level executive, I don’t leave my corporate cave so that people don’t  ask me for an appointment or try to pick my brain for how to best navigate difficult subjects in a meeting.  There’s nothing relaxing or festive about being harassed about why I won’t put someone on her calendar just because we both got to the cookie plate at the same time.  

I’ve been looking for a sweater with croissant-wrapped mini wieners all over it so I can hover by the buffet table unnoticed.  Turns out you can’t buy everything on Amazon. 

And listen – crossaint-wrapped mini wieners are not cheap.  While corporate is usually all right with expensing one or two major functions, they aren’t about to foot the bill for every little get-together.  There’s your floor, your department, your building, your unit, and your actual company party to all worry about. That’s before your actual friends at work decide to throw get-togethers.  Each one has a different clothing policy: wear an ugly sweater, don’t wear an ugly sweater, pay 5 dollars to wear jeans, bring a can of food for a homeless shelter and sport a wacky hat.  Each one has a different gifting policy: white elephant, traditional gift exchange, everyone donate to charity instead, or sort it out amongst yourselves and cringe when the boss’s gift isn’t well-received.   

By the time I’ve filed all the details for each gathering and burned a fresh stack of cash to attend them, I’m actually wishing I could just do my regular work and be left alone.  Call me an office Grinch, but there’s only so many times I can make jokes about human resources people or whatever happened at the holiday party three years ago (that I wasn’t even at, by the way).

Maybe that’s their plan.  Maybe this has all already been thought out.  Since people tend to shut down once the month of December hits, companies encourage frequent holiday party planning so that we’re coaxed back into the idea of putting in a solid 8 hours.  In fact, we’re so thankful that we don’t have to have our day interrupted by fruit cake and bad potlucks that we almost smile while we work.  It’s brilliant! Twisted, but brilliant.

Touché, corporate.  Touché. ♣♣

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Run, Jackie, Run.

15 Dec

I’ve actually begun to kind of look forward to running.

I can’t believe I just wrote that.  But there it is.  Just, you know, sitting there.  

For those of you who don’t have a feeding tube inserted from my blog to your brain, 1) button’s on the right and 2) let’s debrief.  I started this program called Couch to 5K in an attempt to truly test the psychology that has (so far) successfully propelled me through posting each and every day in 2011.  The idea is that I take the same no-excuses attitude, publicize it so people hold me accountable, and try to tackle the thing I hate most in the entire world: running.

One of the things that drew me to Couch to 5K is that it advises you not to do any more than it calls for, even if you think you can.  Since it’s built for couch potatoes, it doesn’t want you to get burned out and quit.   But earlier this week, I was sincerely pondering breaking the rules.  I just wanted to feel good about the fact that I ran that day.  I wasn’t in the mood to run, per se… I just wanted to be proud of myself and imagine my kangaroo pouch shrinking while I was huffing and puffing.

I’m using it for some serious storage.

Perhaps some psychoevaluation is in order.  It appears to be a classic case of Stockholm Syndrome.  With no choice but to continue on in the program I’ve so widely publicized and rooted in an activity I so deeply despise, I’ve begun to accept my position as captive and am starting to empathize with my captor.

Never, ever, in my life did I think this would be true.  Of course, I’ve only almost finished week three of a nine-week program.  Next week I could be cursing and devising new and exciting ways to break my foot so I can cop out.  But what if I just keep…liking it? What if I turn into some kind of crazy running beast that can’t be stopped?

Well, the asthma will get me eventually.  But after near-death and a puff of that inhaler: BEAST.

I’m on to something here.  I’m going to unlock and entire world of psychoanalysis discovery.  I can hear the news anchors now: “Postadayer turned marathon runner? How this awkward hermit girl became the Forrest Gump of our time.”  I’ll write memoirs and I’ll get shoe endorsements and I’ll take the world by storm.

But first: week four. ♣

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A View from the Fence

14 Dec

I’m afraid that I’m spending my time in the present telling myself that it won’t be my future and that in the future I’ll look around and realize it’s still my present.

Isn’t that what we’re all afraid of? I’m squishy, I bite my nails, I’m a slave to the corporate machine, I want to go to grad school, I want to travel somewhere fantastical, and I want to accomplish something truly amazing in my lifetime.  I drug myself through my everyday experiences by telling myself that someday, these things will change.  

On a small scale, I’m working on them.  A few of them.  Truly working.  But I’ve worked on them before and failed, which is why I’m working on them now.  And so every day I have this tiny little voice in the bottom of my toes that cries up to my tiny heart and says go do something drastic.  Just go.  The Appalachian Trail, backpacking in Europe, starting my own business, walking to California, writing a novel – the voice has had a lot of time to think up suggestions.  And my brain follows right behind, touting that the important things in life are experiences and that there is no point to paying bills and having a roof over my head and fulfilling traditional adult expectations if I’m not doing those things in order to fuel a passion or fulfill a purpose.  It whispers real-life examples.  People who throw away everything normal about their lives to fulfill a dream or take an epic adventure or start a journey they feared they’d never plunge into unless they jumped on the spark in their stomachs. 

And then it tells me to get serious and that I can’t spend my life as a dirty, starving hippie, wandering the earth without a clear cause.

Sometimes I think the plan is to, well, plan.  For x amount of years, I’ll try such and such.  For y amount of years, I’ll do this and see if it works out.  By [insert year here] I will accomplish the things on this list I put somewhere but never look at.

Other times I think I’m making it all too complicated and that I need to just keep an open mind and take opportunities as they come, constantly being sure to simultaneously seek them out. 

There’s something inside me that won’t allow me to live an average life.  I don’t want to spend it in a slumber.  I don’t want to have a steady, predictable job so that I can buy a place to put the things I buy in and then invite everyone over and show them my place where I put my things and give birth to little versions of me who grow up to learn that jobs and places to put your things are what life is about.

Have you ever thought about how little of the world you’ll see in your lifetime? You can travel all you want, but there are so many places to go.  The world is so huge and the experiences it has to offer are so numerous.  There are going to be things you never see, places you never step foot in, and adventures you never embark on. 

I just can’t figure out if that means that I should go do as many of them as possible or that it’s just reality and we live where we live in the means that are allowed us, and we must make small adventures into big ones.  If I pick either and dedicate myself fully to it, as I am wont to do, I could make a huge mistake taking either path.  With one, I risk spending my life in a slumber; with the other, I risk throwing away everything to go on a journey that fails miserably and makes everyone think I’ve lost all shreds of sanity.

Or, I could live a life on the fence where I am currently perched: not willing to choose a side but not wanting to look back at a life that was lived just on the cusp of a decision. 

That’s surely no life at all. ♣

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A Need Tae Practice Ma Scots

13 Dec

Hey, look at that: It’s Lollipop Tuesday!

What’s Lollipop Tuesday, you ask? The same thing it’s been for the last fifty weeks – which is why if you’re a noob, you can check out the link at the top of this page that says “What’s Lollipop Tuesday?” and see all the social-anxiety-inducing adventures I’ve had this year.  There are only two left  after today, y’all.  TWO.  Which is why I had to make this week good.

So I went Scottish Country Dancing.

To be honest, I had no idea what on God’s green earth Scottish Country Dancing  was.  But sometimes when I get desperate for Lollipop Tuesday ideas, I check the listings in my local paper for what kind of wacky groups are taking visitors.  Last time it was the Competitive Scrabble Club, and as many of you know, that didn’t go so great.  This time, it was the Scottish Country Dance Society.  So I hauled my jiggly butt off the couch and off to an Episcopalian church full of some eager dancing beavers.

I had a lot of reservations about this experience before going into it.  As Dave, Marvin, and I climbed the mountain to the location, Dave and I both talked about how much we didn’t want to go.  Me, because I was by no means equipped for dancing of any sort. Dave,  because he has a long, sordid history of dating Irish competitive dancers – and while Scottish and Irish are not the same, he has a visceral nausea at the thought of returning anywhere near to that land.  

I couldn't blame Dave. Frightening, no?

When we got to the church, we were warmly greeted by everyone and then they got right to business.  After a short warmup, the leader announced that we would not dance with partners our same level – which meant that Dave and I couldn’t just fumble around like morons together: I actually had to try.  That’s when the head hauncho looked my way and took me as his lass.

Super.

I think he smelled my fear because after a brief demonstration, I was passed off to a soft, older gentleman (let’s call him Morrie) who seemed somewhat amused by my absolute lack of skill and was happy to herd me to where I needed to be, point directly at me when I was supposed to be flailing in his general direction, and was incredibly understanding of the fact that though I was in a relatively small space with only 8 people to navigate, I was completely incapable of staying on course.

Quickly, my embarrassment dissipated and instead focused on the realization that everyone around me was at least 20 years (and some 40) my elder and all were outperforming me aerobically.  After two dances I was reminding myself to control my breathing and Morrie looked like he could have Scottish hopped his way through a 2 mile relay race.  

It’s moments like these that I regret the existence of both Ben and Jerry.

Kilts were not required but I wouldn't have been opposed to the idea.

But I powered through.  I told myself it was because I ran right before I came (true, but sad nonetheless) and tried to focus more on being embarrassed from not being able to hold 32 counts in my head at the same time.  With all that skipping and jumping and partner changing, I tend to get distracted from the matter at hand.

In spite of how incredibly out of shape I am and the reminder that I cannot dance well with even the most straightforward and considerate instruction, I actually had a nice time.  Because despite being the same demographic as the Competetive Scrabble Club, these people were nice.  They were forgiving and accepting and actually meant “beginners welcome”.   It surprises me how many groups I’ve visited that have such a sense of exclusivity when they clearly state that they welcome visitors.  Most of them are dirty, rotten liars.  And even if they’re open to the idea of noobs, once they find out that you’re just there to have an experience and write a blog, sometimes they get a little funny on you.  But not these folks.  In fact, Dave and I so appreciated how they smiled warmly when I was going the wrong direction and making it look more like an inebriated dance than a social one that on the way home we said we were happily surprised and might even return someday.

Before that time, it’d be great if I could get hooked up with right foot and a greater lung capacity. ♣

Psst: If you happen to be near my corner of the world, check out the Pittsburgh Scottish Country Dance Society here and consider dropping in on one of their classes.  If I can do it, you certainly can.  Plus, Morrie is adorable.

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