ALIAS over-load

Last night I dreamt that Jennifer Garner and I improvised a song together. A song about putting my phone in a bowl of rice. (I had dropped my phone in a lake.)  

 This dream told me a few things:  

My rhyming game is getting way better. Three years ago if I was able to set up a rhyme in a song that didn't end with an "ay" it would most likely have been an accident.  
I should get insurance from Verizon -just in case I do in fact drop my phone in a lake.  
I have been watching too much ALIAS. I have only binge watched a few shows in my life but over the course of the last week I watched seasons one thru three of ALIAS.  

Shortly after I saw Legally Blonde on Broadway, they aired it on MTV. My roommate and I tivo-ed it and I must have watched it a dozen times. I also listened to the soundtrack on repeat for months. FOR MONTHS; In the car, at home, on the treadmill - I "oh-my-god, oh-my-god-you guys" thru all parts of my life. When the music permeated my dreams I knew it was time to take a break. 

So, Sydney Bristow - we shall meet again, but for now I'm just going to Wikipedia how your story wraps up and join you again another time. 

THE MAN

I left for a work a little earlier than normal today.  The only nice thing about that is that the trains are less crowded and fewer people are on the platforms. As the doors were opening on my train an older white man literally shoulder checked me to enter the train first.  Normally this would irritate me, but as I was carrying my dog and she was also aggressively jostled, I was really irritated.

How dare this mussed and too skinny man shove his way into the half empty train car before me when I WAS HERE FIRST!  There was another man waiting for our doors and he and I locked eyes after I was checked out of the way and he was also clearly bothered by it as well.

Neither of us said a thing.

This man, I shall call him THE MAN, raced to an open seat and shoved his way into it.  Uneccessarily so as THE MAN was very thin and could have easily fit into the open seat without bothering the people on either side of him.  I sent my angriest stares at THE MAN and now am so glad I was glaring because I watched him pull a notebook out of his breast pocket, stare at his watch for what felt like eternity and then furiously start writing.

Because I am nosy and because THE MAN made me mad, I got closer and snooped.  This notebook was filled with times.  At the top of each page (and I know this because as we moved along and he finished his entries he flipped back thru the pages of not just one but two of these pocket-sized notebooks, the words "I left..." were written.  I assume from watching him check his watch every stop and write the time down that THE MAN needs to keep obsessive track of the time and how long everything takes.

What a terrible life that must be.

How do you get to a point in your life where the only solution to what ales you is to shove strangers our of your way and write a million numbers and times in a tiny DuaneReade notebook?

It took us 19 minutes and 27 seconds to get into Grand Central Station.  Now get out of my way, I need to get off the train.

Anni-DOG-sary

On Sunday I will have had my dog for two years.

It feels like she has been in my life for eternity.  Two years feels so insignificant for all the ways she's made my life better.  For all the ways she's made me better.

I have never been a big believer on "things happening for a reason".  I always want to think that that is true.  I want to believe that all the crap we get dealt is for a bigger purpose.  But honestly, most of the time I think we just get handed a plate of garbage just because.  I romanticize the idea that there is some higher power in charge of our destiny, but don't think there is.  I do believe in a God - maybe not the traditional version, or the one that is taught anywhere.  But I believe there is more to this universe than just what we see - and that wouldn't be possible without something more having a hand in our existence.

One exception to this overall feeling is my dog.  When I met her I wasn't immediately smitten.  I mean, she is adorable; a long little frankenstein of a dog, with giant pleading eyes and bat ears, but when we met I didn't think "oh yeah - this is my dog".  When my sister found her dog at the Humane Society, we were on the phone and she saw him, said "oh no..." and then hung up on me.  She was looking to volunteer at the shelter - she was not in the market to adopt a dog.  She says that she saw him and just knew he was meant to be in her life.  I've heard a lot of people say that.  I never felt that.  Only when I got an email from my dog's foster parents (a few days after I met her) saying that someone else was interested in adopting her did I start to feel connected to her.  My dog is (and I say this with affection) an aquired taste. She was a street dog in Puerto Rico for the first year of her life and that has made her scared and brave and stubborn and strong.  Her first year made her very strong, which doesn't always translate into the best pet material.  It took us almost three weeks to start bonding.  She is a lot like a cat in that she has to choose you before you can force affection on her.  She is slow to warm but then is the sweetest little love bug that has ever been.

I think the universe knew I needed something in my world to change and I think the universe hand picked this dog for me.  She never walks faster than a saunter so I am forced to slow down.  She gets grumpy at night if I'm staying up past when she wants to be asleep, so I am forced to turn off the lights.  She was very sick when I adopted her, so I was forced to pay attention and focus on her instead of on my nonsense.  She is scared of loud and sudden sounds, so I am forced to seek out quiet and peace.  She needs a lot of physical attention, so I am forced to offer it.  Having this dog has forced me one stray hair at a time to find happiness.  The universe knew I was struggling so it offered me a respite in the form of tiny little mutt.

Sarah Silverman, who is often too crass in her comedy for my taste (but who, for the record I have MAD respect for) lost her dog a year or so ago.  In her grief she took to her blog to write her little Duck a eulogy.  It was beautiful and heartfelt and sums up how I feel about my pup.

Hangry

On facebook today, my friend posted the following post: 
           I am too old for the simple realization, "Oh, I guess I was just hungry," to be such a 
           consistently surprising answer to so many of my searching questions.

It made me laugh because I know her, but also because it applies to me as well. 

There are people who can suffer from hunger in a pleasant silence.  I am not one of them.  There are people who realize, "oh I forgot to eat" hours after a meal time and are surprised.  I am not one of them.  There are people who function at 100% when their blood sugar dips dangerously low.  I am not one of them.  

I have what was affectionately termed in college as A Food Monster.  When I get hungry I am a horrible person.  I get mean and impatient and curt.  I am never without a full stash of snacks.  I know myself and my flaws so I am always within an arms reach of a granola bar or bag of fruit snacks.  

My sister and I inherited this lovely personality trait from our dad.  When he is hungry his Food Monster might eat you or kill you - depending on if there are sharp objects near by.  Growing up my mother, with the patience of a saint would simply ask "dear, are you hungry?" and get to the nearest drive thru.  I can feel the Food Monster approaching about 10 minutes before I snap.  But the only reason I work to stay away of him is because I grew up being constantly aware of him living in those around me.  

Hence, the picnic basket of goodies in my purse. 

Shop

I just read an article about things all kids did in the 80's that would never fly today.

This list included walking to school, playing dodgeball, passing out Valentines and tetherball.  Yes, yes, yes and yes.   One of the bullets that jumped out at me though was "gender specific classes"; ie: shop or home-economics.  

In eight grade I had a major crush on this kid named Jared.  I'm talking ohmygodI'msoinlovewithyou sized crush.  He and I held hands once on a field trip in fifth grade and I had yet to shake my feelings for him some three years later.  Now, having never been hip or cool, and having literally ZERO ability to flirt with boys or understand how that was supposed to work, my 13 year old brain concluded that the only and obviously best way to impress Jared was to sign up for a class I knew he'd be in and dazzle him with my wit, charm and mad-skillz.  Which is how, second semester of eighth grade, I ended up as the only girl in shop class.

I also joined the wrestling team to impress this boy - but that is a different story for a different day. For the record, it did not work.   Shocking, I know.

Our shop teacher was a man named Mr. Beebe.  He had a toupee and had been teaching shop for easily 100 years.  He was very kind to me - I think because he was surprised to have a girl in the class.  Unsurprisingly, Jared never chose me as his shop partner.  I built my bird houses with someone else and pined in silence.  I don't remember building much that semester.  I remember walking around looking for wood, and occasionally using the table saw.  Mostly I remember sitting at the metal tables before the bell rang waiting for Mr. Beebe to emerge from his dimly lit (always closed door) office to start our daily projects.

I am really glad I took that class.  Not because I am a master of all things mechanic or wood-sy.  I am not.  And not because I ended up woo-ing the boy that brought me to the class.  I did not.  And not because I walked out of there with a birdhouse to end all birdhouses.  I did not.

I am glad I took that class because no matter how inept I felt for that half-year, I am not afraid of tools.  I may not know how to use them, or may use them wrong or inefficiently, but I am not afraid.  I will never call a man to come fix something until after I've tried to fix it myself.  I will never not try to put something together on my own first before asking for help.   I am strong and I am capable.  And while I may still be a total dweeb when it comes to dealing with boys, at least I know I can hold my own against them in a middle school shop class.  So that counts for something.

VHS to DVD

Today I paid a man $100 to convert some VHS tapes into DVDs. That seems like a lot considering my uncle has a machine that will convert my old videos for free - but the price I'll pay for peace of mind seems like a steal to me. 

I have no idea what's on these tapes. 

My parents gave me a video camera for christmas my senior year of high school and I used that thing like it was going out of style. Which, it was incidentally. 

I filmed everywhere. Mixing my untrained and unfocused cinematography desires with alcohol once I got to college was, I'm quite sure a cinematic disaster. I am equally excited and horrified to watch these tapes - er, DVDs on friday. They will be both hilarious and horribly embarrassing I am sure. 

I have very vague memories of drunkenly schlubbing my bulky cam-corder to parties or to the library (because this was college, and you of course drunk studied in the library). I also am curious to see if the things I remember taping are actually recorded or if I made them up in a booze soaked dream. 

I have a very distinct memory of lugging my camera to a party in the basement of one of the dorms and getting plastered on Redbull and vodka. This would be a good time to mention (before you think me a sloppy drunk of a human) that I have a very low tolerance for alcohol. 3 drinks and I'm good for the night. 3 and a half and I'm asleep on the floor of a bathroom. This particular night my friend acted as barkeep and in an effort to keep me from falling asleep before 10pm - switched my drinks from vodka AND to just Redbull. I got wasted and was amped out of caffeine. Honestly i'm surprised more people don't have heart attacks from that poison. 

At some point in the night I decided I was a gymnast, announced to the group (probably just shouted it a lot and very loudly) that I was a gymnast and disappeared into the hall. Now would be a good time to mention that as a kid my parents signed my up for gymnastics but after a handful of lessons the instructor kindly suggested I might be more successful in soccer. 

I have a very distinct memory (which again could be fabricated by the passing of time and re-telling of this story by everyone in attendance that night) - that on the recording from that night you'll see me attempt not once not twice but three times a standing front flip thru the hall way door. The cement hallway door. 

Now- the events of that night are accurate. I had the bruises and the hangover to prove it. I am curious to see though, if my failure at gymnastics was caught for posterity. 

I really hope it was. And I really hope it wasn't. 

This won't take long.

If you start a sentence with "this won't take long..." What you are about to say is never going to be quick. Ever.

At work, there are a few people who when they stand up to talk I have to prep myself for the long haul. Some people are incapable of brevity or efficiency.  These are always the people who start their sentences with "this won't take very long" or "real quickly let's XYZ..." 

I saw a poster somewhere that said something along the lines of "just got done with another meeting that should have been an email".  

I feel like that at least 60 percent of the time.

If you start your spiel with some variation of "this won't take long"- you're lying to yourself and you're insulting whoever it is you're talking to.  If what you've got to say will truly not take long then you'd just come out and say it. Including a preface makes what you're about to say take longer, and  tells your audience that you are disorganized and will in fact take up a good chunk of their time.

Just cut to the chase.

The Tony's

I just watched a friend win a Tony Award.

Let me repeat.  I just watched a friend of mine win a Tony Award.

I am unreasonably proud and excited and thrilled.

As a person he is a superb human being - funny and witty and charming and divine and humble.  As an actor he is breath-taking.

I am so delighted to know him in real-life.  To celebrate someone who honestly deserves EVERY SINGLE BIT of success he has earned, is a rarity in this life.

Good things happening to good people feels like the first breath of the hope I have been missing.

Alex Sharp - you are a gem.  Congratulations.

Shades of Grey (Suits)

I don't like the fashion of men wearing light gray suits. 

I think they look so smarmy. I classify them as one step up from a khaki jacket. If clothing shops were equivalent for men and women, I imagine you'd be able to purchase a light gray suit at Dots or Rainbow.  

I realize these men don their dark colored shirt beneath said light grey suit thinking they're making a very savvy fashion choice, but to me it screams " I WANT YOU TO THINK I AM IN THE MAFIA!" 

Even if the guy hasn't slicked his hair back before dressing the dreaded light gray - once he's wearing the whole suit he just looks to me like a salesman. A bad one. A summer intern door to door salesman selling coupon books. 

I spent the summer between my junior and senior year of college doing door-to-door sales - it was the pits.  Nothing about that job was fun.  NOTHING.  The men I worked with were all so serious about their ability to make a drop and at least 80% of them owned a light grey suit.  

Guys, do us all a favor and stick with the classics, black, navy or periwinkle. 

Summer

It's June.   How in the hell is it already June?  I walked to the train this morning wearing a hoodie under my jacket. In New York our seasons have an angry non-transition between TooCold and TooHot, but here we are on June 4 and I wore a coat on my morning walk.  I am okay with that. 

Having a "traditional" 9-5 (which in New York translates into an 8-6) job means that summer doesn't mean what it used to.  

As a kid I went to camp.  For 11 amazing years I spent my summer time sleeping in cabins, forgetting to wash my hair or change out of my swim suit, writing letters home, building fires, looking at bugs, playing capture the flag, riding horses, canoeing, swimming, drinking orange-aide and boondoggling... so much boondoggling.   I was so lucky.  

My first sleep away experience was for two nights.  It was a church camp and I went with my sister.  That summer was so hot that they made us drink salt water so we didn't get dehydrated.  There was a pool.  I made 8 gods-eyes.   I slept in a cabin with other girls and looked at stars and ate marshmallows and sang.  We sang a lot.  I loved it.  

I was 8 the next summer, and my parents agreed to send me to camp for two weeks.  The deal I made with my mother about it was if I could learn to do my own hair, I could go to camp.  I am certain there were more contingencies to this agreement, but that is the one I took to heart and still remember.  I learned how to put my own hair in a pony-tail and I felt like the smartest person in the world.  Those two weeks I was so home-sick I was actually sick.  I cried every night.  I wept and sobbed and missed my mom and dad.  But only at night.  During the day I ran and played and sang and crafted like a champ.  But at night I ached for home.  A friend who was also at camp stayed only one week and apparently (I have no memory of this) when her parents came to pick her up they took one look at my ratty crumpled appearance and called my mom immediately, telling her that I was homesick and struggling.  I remember my counselors names from that summer - Marsha and Bridget.  I must have driven them crazy, but they were always kind.  They always held my hand and told me it would be fine.  Those two women (they were probably 19) were champions and I will always be grateful to them.  I cried every night to go home, but on the last day of camp I did NOT want to leave.  

That was the beginning.  The next ten summers were spent on the shores of Stoney Lake in middle of nowhere Michigan, and they were awesome.  When I got too old to be a camper, I started working as a counselor.  In college, when my friends worked summer internships I worked at camp.  The first year I didn't pack all my belongings into a smelly too-small trunk was so hard.  And now, almost 15 years later, I still miss it.  I don't miss the $200/week paycheck or only having 6 hours off a week, or the dirt and mold or the yelling or the camp drama - but I miss the moments.  I miss the peace that comes with routine, I miss the simplicity of raising the flag each morning and lowering it each night before dinner.  I miss singing loud repeat-after-me songs with kids who cannot wait to scream Boom-Chicka-Boom right back at you.  I miss walking thru the woods to get where you're going.  I miss sitting at a campfire with someone playing guitar. I miss making arts n crafts.  I miss laughing about nothing with people who in the real world I would never laugh with.  I miss the isolation and detachment from reality.  I miss being comfortable enough with people you can pee next to them behind a bush.  

Summer camp changed and molded who I am.  I am so thankful for the independence, the compassion, the strength and the creativity that going to camp taught me.  

Right now, as I sit at a desk in the middle of Manhattan, I pine for the days of simple joys.  Sounds so lame - but it is the truth.  I couldn't work that job now.  I am too different. I am too changed.  But I am grateful for that time every single day. 

boom chicka boom.