During my college days, I was a bit of a party-music connoisseur. I had an extensive collection of CDs, and was usually the primary resource for any of the music played during my sorority's house parties. And I loved it. I would spend most of my post-tuition earnings on the latest and greatest in hip-hop, dance, and a little pop. On Thursday nights, my roommate and I would rock out to my latest finds. We’d even turn on the Christmas lights we’d strewn about the room in an attempt to lure boys into our room. Not that we needed the “mood lighting.” It was after all, college.
Then life happened. College ended (the fun years anyway), post-college break-ups occurred, and my life as a corporate drone started. Not only were my fun party CDs irrelevant, they just weren’t as cool to listen to. Somehow, sitting in traffic after a 10-hour day, feeling my Spanx cut off all circulation to my lower extremities voided any need to play The Thong Song. Instead, I made friends with Elvis Costello, The Cure, and Dashboard Confessional.
But every once in awhile, when I least expect it, I’ll hear something that takes me right back to those days. And there I am, shaking my ass on the dance floor of our neighboring fraternity house. A never-ending supply of screwdriver drinks in my hand, my feet in the highest heels I could find, my lips never un-glossed and ever ready for any potential 2AM make-out sessions.
This weekend, my friend K-Ro came out for a visit. We were bouncing around town, when LMFAO’s I’m in Miami, Bitch came on the radio. We both stopped mid-sentence, and I immediately turned up the radio. The song has been in constant replay since that moment. Sometimes I can overlook all of the things that I consider to make ‘good’ music, and just enjoy something that makes me want to get out of my seat and dance.
I got a plan, what’s your cell?
We playin’ naked Twister back in my hotel…
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Retaining Walls
“Hey, do you remember that guy we ran into when we were downtown a few weeks ago? He was tall, with dark ey-”
“Scott?”
“Uh, yeah. How did you remember that?”
Shrug.
I have always considered myself as someone with an above average memory. Sure, as I get closer to my 30s, and have to memorize industry-specific acronyms, website passwords, and friend’s birthdays, I am not as sharp as I used to be. But for the most part, I have the uncanny ability to hold on to faces, names, events, and places easily.
My friend L doesn’t remember anything. She spent most of our high school graduation leaned over, asking me to identify three-quarters of our graduating class, most of whom she had known since pre-pubescence. She forgets to put her car in park before turning it off. At no time can she name the title, or any starring actors of a movie she saw within the week. And she doesn’t care. She laughs off her ineptitude at memorizing names. She gives rap songs ridiculously inappropriate titles because she thinks it’s funny that she doesn’t know the real titles. She spends a good deal of her driving time getting lost. But she never skips a beat.
Then there’s me. I hold on to everything. Every detail. Every forehead crease, wrinkled skirt, handsome face, or peculiar odor. I fast forward and rewind, like a little mini-film that plays on repeat in my brain. The outfit my last manager wore on the day of my job interview five years ago? Got it. The cost of my dance costumes for my competition recital in 8th grade? Don’t even have to check the receipt. The painted-walls smell of the hallway in my freshman dorm corridor where I stood the moment I laid eyes on my first love? Yes, indeed.
And usually, this memory of mine is a great tool. My mom calls me after her church service to tell me about a childhood friend’s parent that she ran into. I can always recite their names so my mom won’t be embarrassed during her next encounter. I can remember where the car was parked, right down to the crack in the pavement next to the left rear wheel. My high school speech teacher would be proud to know that I still can recite the poem Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout. Well, most of it anyway.
But sometimes, and what is becoming more than some times, I don’t want to remember. The way the wind was knocked out of me when I found out a rather crushing secret kept by a close friend? You can keep it. Hearing two grown women, who had purported to my be my friend only weeks before, say vile, sophomoric, and completely unoriginal things about me? Please burn the original and any copies.
It’s sort of like Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. There is no way to erase bad memories, or chunks of memory, for convenience sake. Sure, a blow to the head might do some good, but that has potential of putting my motor-skills at risk. And the real catch when it comes to having an impeccable memory is that for all the fantastic, sunny skied, blue watered, sand-between-my-toes kinds of flashbacks, there are always a few spoilers.
So what then? Is there some sort of guide to pushing away everything bad that keeps me up at night? Isn’t repressing bad stuff just exacerbating the issue? Or is the solution to hold on to the good stuff nice and tight, but keep the bad stuff at bay? Not so much that it disappears, but just so that it’s not showing every half-hour on all screens within my brain? Maybe it’s better to address the big stuff, even if it drags on and closure seems just beyond the fingertips. Maybe being haunted by something so crisp, clear, and painfully present is a sign that I have yet to truly confront this stuff.
Because ultimately, I refuse to just start forgetting. Unlike my friend, I am not content to not remember. I like cataloging new faces. I enjoy the feeling I get when I smell that combination of sea salt, hot dogs, and freshly mowed grass. I like tracing my fingers along the skin of the person I love, and knowing there will be no surprises. I like to remember.
“Scott?”
“Uh, yeah. How did you remember that?”
Shrug.
I have always considered myself as someone with an above average memory. Sure, as I get closer to my 30s, and have to memorize industry-specific acronyms, website passwords, and friend’s birthdays, I am not as sharp as I used to be. But for the most part, I have the uncanny ability to hold on to faces, names, events, and places easily.
My friend L doesn’t remember anything. She spent most of our high school graduation leaned over, asking me to identify three-quarters of our graduating class, most of whom she had known since pre-pubescence. She forgets to put her car in park before turning it off. At no time can she name the title, or any starring actors of a movie she saw within the week. And she doesn’t care. She laughs off her ineptitude at memorizing names. She gives rap songs ridiculously inappropriate titles because she thinks it’s funny that she doesn’t know the real titles. She spends a good deal of her driving time getting lost. But she never skips a beat.
Then there’s me. I hold on to everything. Every detail. Every forehead crease, wrinkled skirt, handsome face, or peculiar odor. I fast forward and rewind, like a little mini-film that plays on repeat in my brain. The outfit my last manager wore on the day of my job interview five years ago? Got it. The cost of my dance costumes for my competition recital in 8th grade? Don’t even have to check the receipt. The painted-walls smell of the hallway in my freshman dorm corridor where I stood the moment I laid eyes on my first love? Yes, indeed.
And usually, this memory of mine is a great tool. My mom calls me after her church service to tell me about a childhood friend’s parent that she ran into. I can always recite their names so my mom won’t be embarrassed during her next encounter. I can remember where the car was parked, right down to the crack in the pavement next to the left rear wheel. My high school speech teacher would be proud to know that I still can recite the poem Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout. Well, most of it anyway.
But sometimes, and what is becoming more than some times, I don’t want to remember. The way the wind was knocked out of me when I found out a rather crushing secret kept by a close friend? You can keep it. Hearing two grown women, who had purported to my be my friend only weeks before, say vile, sophomoric, and completely unoriginal things about me? Please burn the original and any copies.
It’s sort of like Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. There is no way to erase bad memories, or chunks of memory, for convenience sake. Sure, a blow to the head might do some good, but that has potential of putting my motor-skills at risk. And the real catch when it comes to having an impeccable memory is that for all the fantastic, sunny skied, blue watered, sand-between-my-toes kinds of flashbacks, there are always a few spoilers.
So what then? Is there some sort of guide to pushing away everything bad that keeps me up at night? Isn’t repressing bad stuff just exacerbating the issue? Or is the solution to hold on to the good stuff nice and tight, but keep the bad stuff at bay? Not so much that it disappears, but just so that it’s not showing every half-hour on all screens within my brain? Maybe it’s better to address the big stuff, even if it drags on and closure seems just beyond the fingertips. Maybe being haunted by something so crisp, clear, and painfully present is a sign that I have yet to truly confront this stuff.
Because ultimately, I refuse to just start forgetting. Unlike my friend, I am not content to not remember. I like cataloging new faces. I enjoy the feeling I get when I smell that combination of sea salt, hot dogs, and freshly mowed grass. I like tracing my fingers along the skin of the person I love, and knowing there will be no surprises. I like to remember.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Long Overdue
So, I've been M.I.A. for awhile, and not the British she-rapper who almost dripped birthing fluids while performing at the Grammys. I mean out-of-pocket, indisposed, or otherwise engaged.
I mainly didn't write because it was like Lemony Snickets up in this piece for a few months, and I didn't feel like sharing bitter comentary about my life's shortcomings. I'm getting over all that, slowly...and not-so-surely.
There really is no point to this post, other than to dump a few meanderings I have been pondering over the past week. So, her goes.
I mainly didn't write because it was like Lemony Snickets up in this piece for a few months, and I didn't feel like sharing bitter comentary about my life's shortcomings. I'm getting over all that, slowly...and not-so-surely.
There really is no point to this post, other than to dump a few meanderings I have been pondering over the past week. So, her goes.
- Why does Southwest airline only post flight information five - six months in advance? Ummm, hi. It is summertime and need to get my travel plans in order for the rest of 2009. Life does not end after Halloween.
- Eminem, I still love you. I am so sorry I doubted you for so long. Had you just told me you were holed-up in Detroit, nursing your addiction, I would have come to your rescue. And even brought you a strawberry Faygo to make it better.
- I am now StubHub's bitch. TicketsNow, you can take your tickets and do something highly depraved, profane, and painful.
- As if I needed another reason to love and spend all of my supplemental income at Target, the store has started carrying Soap & Glory products. I discovered this stuff on vacation in Canada awhile back, and I was hooked. But like all European-inspired products, it took four score and seven years to make it to the US, let alone the mid-south. But it was worth the wait.
My goal is to make these posts not as few and far between. So, to the four of you still reading this, cheers.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Piece-Mealing Metaphors
You know those times when things seem to just click together? Maybe everything is not perfect, but life hums on at just the right tune that if you could capture it on your digital camera, you wouldn't delete the picture for a couple years?
Yeah, me too.
Except there is sometimes this little thing. Or maybe it's a really big thing, disguised as a little thing. And maybe it's not in your face all the time. Maybe it's like a snag on your favorite sweater, that if you just leave it alone and don't pull that one teeny-tiny little thread, your sweater would remain intact for at least six more dry cleanings.
Perhaps it's that if you pull that little snag, you might be forced to see the demise of something you really love.
It might not even be that black-and-white. It might be this wonderful shade of grey. Not so grey that it envelops you and and makes you forget about any other color. Maybe it's invigorating, like mornings along the San Francisco Bay. It might just smooth out the sharp edges of things you would rather just leave undiscovered and lull you into a false sense of security the way four-wheel drive does to Midwesterners.
But you know, you always know, that like all things unpleasant, it will surface. And no amount of pink frosting, or perfectly sized jeans found on sale, or sleeping in on Saturdays will ever make it less sharp. Less devastating. Less not there.
Little boxes, on the hillside
Little boxes, made of ticky-tacky
Little boxes, on the hillside
Little boxes, just the same
There's a pink one, and a green one
A blue one, and a yellow one
And they're all made out of ticky-tacky
And they all look just the same
And the people in boxes, all went to the university
And they were put in boxes, and they all came out the same
And there's doctors and lawyers and business executives
And they're all made out of ticky-tacky
And they all look just the same
Yeah, me too.
Except there is sometimes this little thing. Or maybe it's a really big thing, disguised as a little thing. And maybe it's not in your face all the time. Maybe it's like a snag on your favorite sweater, that if you just leave it alone and don't pull that one teeny-tiny little thread, your sweater would remain intact for at least six more dry cleanings.
Perhaps it's that if you pull that little snag, you might be forced to see the demise of something you really love.
It might not even be that black-and-white. It might be this wonderful shade of grey. Not so grey that it envelops you and and makes you forget about any other color. Maybe it's invigorating, like mornings along the San Francisco Bay. It might just smooth out the sharp edges of things you would rather just leave undiscovered and lull you into a false sense of security the way four-wheel drive does to Midwesterners.
But you know, you always know, that like all things unpleasant, it will surface. And no amount of pink frosting, or perfectly sized jeans found on sale, or sleeping in on Saturdays will ever make it less sharp. Less devastating. Less not there.
Little boxes, on the hillside
Little boxes, made of ticky-tacky
Little boxes, on the hillside
Little boxes, just the same
There's a pink one, and a green one
A blue one, and a yellow one
And they're all made out of ticky-tacky
And they all look just the same
And the people in boxes, all went to the university
And they were put in boxes, and they all came out the same
And there's doctors and lawyers and business executives
And they're all made out of ticky-tacky
And they all look just the same
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Behind Stall Number One...
When I was a kid, I had a mild fear of public bathrooms. I remember willing my aching bladder to just wait a few more minutes on my bumpy bus rides home from school in the afternoon. I would run in the door, and barely make it to the bathroom. My mom always lectured me on holding it too long, but no amount of her talk could make me use the bathroom during school.
I've gotten over my phobia since then, and in the past year I have traveled pretty extensively for both work and myself. So, using public restrooms sort of becomes a secondary thing, and I don't even think twice to push open the door marked 'Ladies.' Once inside, however, I have noticed that not everyone is playing by the same rules. It appears that maybe men aren't the only ones who can't be trusted to follow proper bathroom etiquette. Ladies, I know you're out there...and I'm keeping my eye on you.
1. Do not peek through the space between the stall door to see if someone is occupying the stall. Sometimes that space is bordering on a full inch, and if I wanted my lady-parts on display I would call Larry Flynt. Try knocking. Or even checking for feet under the door. Or just waiting for a half-minute until I exit.
2. When using the air-dryer to dry your hands, please do not heed the advice of Outkast and shake it like a Polaroid. While I appreciate that the air-dryer takes some time to fully dry hands, I do not want to be sprinkled while you attempt to pre-dry. Walk a few feet away from me before you attempt to wring your hands of access water.
3. Wash your hands. Seriously? Don't be disgusting.
4. When there is a long line of women using the bathroom, do not take extra time to fix your face while people stand behind you waiting for a sink. The bathroom is not a place where I like to spend extra time, and it tends to get crowded. Put away your Wet-n-Wild lip gloss, and move it on out.
5. Pay it forward when it comes to toilet paper. If the stall you just left is out of toilet paper, don't let some unsuspecting mother with her tw0 year old wander in after you without a warning. Remember that feeling you get when you're all settled in, and then have to call out to some generous soul to spare a square?
6. Sometimes, the bathroom can get a little...seedy, and a hover situation is definitely in order. But be a dear, and clean up any toilet seat sprinkle that may result from your attempt to avoid crabs.
Lesson adjourned.
I've gotten over my phobia since then, and in the past year I have traveled pretty extensively for both work and myself. So, using public restrooms sort of becomes a secondary thing, and I don't even think twice to push open the door marked 'Ladies.' Once inside, however, I have noticed that not everyone is playing by the same rules. It appears that maybe men aren't the only ones who can't be trusted to follow proper bathroom etiquette. Ladies, I know you're out there...and I'm keeping my eye on you.
1. Do not peek through the space between the stall door to see if someone is occupying the stall. Sometimes that space is bordering on a full inch, and if I wanted my lady-parts on display I would call Larry Flynt. Try knocking. Or even checking for feet under the door. Or just waiting for a half-minute until I exit.
2. When using the air-dryer to dry your hands, please do not heed the advice of Outkast and shake it like a Polaroid. While I appreciate that the air-dryer takes some time to fully dry hands, I do not want to be sprinkled while you attempt to pre-dry. Walk a few feet away from me before you attempt to wring your hands of access water.
3. Wash your hands. Seriously? Don't be disgusting.
4. When there is a long line of women using the bathroom, do not take extra time to fix your face while people stand behind you waiting for a sink. The bathroom is not a place where I like to spend extra time, and it tends to get crowded. Put away your Wet-n-Wild lip gloss, and move it on out.
5. Pay it forward when it comes to toilet paper. If the stall you just left is out of toilet paper, don't let some unsuspecting mother with her tw0 year old wander in after you without a warning. Remember that feeling you get when you're all settled in, and then have to call out to some generous soul to spare a square?
6. Sometimes, the bathroom can get a little...seedy, and a hover situation is definitely in order. But be a dear, and clean up any toilet seat sprinkle that may result from your attempt to avoid crabs.
Lesson adjourned.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
And Now...
Edit: I have created a separate blog for my new venture. Check it out at: http://andnowforthedifference.blogspot.com/.
Whenever I self-evaluate, and think about the things in my life I would like to change, I find the answer is always the same. My weight, my weight, and my weight. In that order. Every time.
I've really struggled lately, and found myself sinking back into that same loop of desperation. Binge. Feel guilty. Purge. Lather, rinse, and repeat if necessary. And it's always necessary. I could say that I've done everything to overcome this, but that's not true. I think there's an ebb and flow to getting over something of this magnitude. I'm waiting for the ebb.
That said, I've been thinking of ways that I can better myself in the new year. I'm not one for resolutions, because I feel like there are plenty of ways I can accidentally disappoint myself. Why add to the list? But that's sort of the definition of self-defeating, and that's just not working for me anymore. So, as a sort of simultaneous thought-chain, I've been thinking about re-tooling this blog. I feel like I set out to tell my story, but that story unravels every day, and I'm finding that it's hard to be the narrator of my own movie.
Ok, so getting back to the original self-evaluation, and seeking to better myself. In sort of exploring the issue of changing my body, I usually wind up in the same place. Find a restrictive diet and exercise in abundance. Because that has totally worked the last 762 times I tried it, so why not give it one more whirl? Because. I said, enough already!
So instead, I have decided to embark on a new journey for 2009. Call it a resolution, call it a diet, call it playing with fire. But I'm calling it research. I think a lot of the issues I have had with food and the abuse thereof has to do with a lot of built-up pressure based on all kinds of information I have learned from the various diets I have attempted in the past. Should I eat pasta? Should I eat an apple everyday? Should I avoid apples? Should I eat after 9? After 8? After 5? Is it better to exercise in the morning, or at night? Should I use the 2/3 rule? Should I? Can I? Will I?
My project for 2009 is simple. I plan to attempt a new diet each month of the year, starting on January 5. I will follow the plan as closely as possible, and document my journey - what worked, where I struggled, how I felt emotionally and physically, etc. And you, dear readers (reader?) will get a front-row seat.
I know this may sound ridiculous. Why on earth would someone who has struggled so much with diets and self-image and food and exercise do something like this? And I'm not sure I have an answer to that question. I do know this. Taking on this project will allow me to focus on one thing at a time, so I won't feel the overwhelming wave of dos and do nots when I try to cram everything I have ever learned into a diet. Also, I have established some ground rules, so I won't be embarking on anything restrictive, overly expensive, faddish, or generally destructive. I've set these guidelines.
1. Each plan must include both a diet and exercise regimen.
2. Each plan must consist of at least 1500 calories a day. I have based this on my doctor's recommendation.
3. No plans that eliminate fruit or vegetable groups.
4. No plans that require mail ordered or prepackaged and shipped food items.
Since I'm still kind of working out the details of this, I haven't really decided what the determining factors will be for success or failure. Since weight loss is my immediate goal (with a broader and more important goal of health and well-being), I will be reporting any gains/losses at the end of each month.
I have a few options in mind for January's plan. I will be posting more details soon. Oh, and I would like to keep this blog as a sort of separate log of my journey. I still plan to write on other topics, so I'll be splitting this into two channels. Stay tuned!
Whenever I self-evaluate, and think about the things in my life I would like to change, I find the answer is always the same. My weight, my weight, and my weight. In that order. Every time.
I've really struggled lately, and found myself sinking back into that same loop of desperation. Binge. Feel guilty. Purge. Lather, rinse, and repeat if necessary. And it's always necessary. I could say that I've done everything to overcome this, but that's not true. I think there's an ebb and flow to getting over something of this magnitude. I'm waiting for the ebb.
That said, I've been thinking of ways that I can better myself in the new year. I'm not one for resolutions, because I feel like there are plenty of ways I can accidentally disappoint myself. Why add to the list? But that's sort of the definition of self-defeating, and that's just not working for me anymore. So, as a sort of simultaneous thought-chain, I've been thinking about re-tooling this blog. I feel like I set out to tell my story, but that story unravels every day, and I'm finding that it's hard to be the narrator of my own movie.
Ok, so getting back to the original self-evaluation, and seeking to better myself. In sort of exploring the issue of changing my body, I usually wind up in the same place. Find a restrictive diet and exercise in abundance. Because that has totally worked the last 762 times I tried it, so why not give it one more whirl? Because. I said, enough already!
So instead, I have decided to embark on a new journey for 2009. Call it a resolution, call it a diet, call it playing with fire. But I'm calling it research. I think a lot of the issues I have had with food and the abuse thereof has to do with a lot of built-up pressure based on all kinds of information I have learned from the various diets I have attempted in the past. Should I eat pasta? Should I eat an apple everyday? Should I avoid apples? Should I eat after 9? After 8? After 5? Is it better to exercise in the morning, or at night? Should I use the 2/3 rule? Should I? Can I? Will I?
My project for 2009 is simple. I plan to attempt a new diet each month of the year, starting on January 5. I will follow the plan as closely as possible, and document my journey - what worked, where I struggled, how I felt emotionally and physically, etc. And you, dear readers (reader?) will get a front-row seat.
I know this may sound ridiculous. Why on earth would someone who has struggled so much with diets and self-image and food and exercise do something like this? And I'm not sure I have an answer to that question. I do know this. Taking on this project will allow me to focus on one thing at a time, so I won't feel the overwhelming wave of dos and do nots when I try to cram everything I have ever learned into a diet. Also, I have established some ground rules, so I won't be embarking on anything restrictive, overly expensive, faddish, or generally destructive. I've set these guidelines.
1. Each plan must include both a diet and exercise regimen.
2. Each plan must consist of at least 1500 calories a day. I have based this on my doctor's recommendation.
3. No plans that eliminate fruit or vegetable groups.
4. No plans that require mail ordered or prepackaged and shipped food items.
Since I'm still kind of working out the details of this, I haven't really decided what the determining factors will be for success or failure. Since weight loss is my immediate goal (with a broader and more important goal of health and well-being), I will be reporting any gains/losses at the end of each month.
I have a few options in mind for January's plan. I will be posting more details soon. Oh, and I would like to keep this blog as a sort of separate log of my journey. I still plan to write on other topics, so I'll be splitting this into two channels. Stay tuned!
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Your Exclamations Mean Nothing to Me
People who mark all of their emails as 'important' or 'urgent' are like the boy who cried wolf. After awhile, I will realize that your emails are only important to you. Not to me. And really, not to anyone else.
So then, I will answer your important emails after I've answered everything else. Even forwards from strange family members who I avoid during holidays.
So then, I will answer your important emails after I've answered everything else. Even forwards from strange family members who I avoid during holidays.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
