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For years I thought I was a most excellent argumentalist. I always won, thanks to my infallible logic and the coolly systematic way in which I broke down my opponent’s defense. However, by some odd coincidence, two different roommates informed me that I was not so much an extremely persuasive debater, but that I was so stubborn I tended to break down my opponent’s desire to keep talking and they would just let me have my way. The outcome is more or less the same… so I was really ok with that.
In my rash youth, there was nothing I loved more than a good verbal fight. I didn’t have the clothes, the popularity, the looks; I hadn’t yet found my confidence, impeccable style, grace and humility — all I had were my words. I relished a good tongue-lashing, and prided myself in always besting my challenger. Sometimes, when I felt a fight was brewing, I’d play it out to myself (as I’m sure many have). I’d imagine not only what I’d say, but what the other person’s likely reactions would be so that I could have the perfect comeback ready. I’d envision how it would all start, and, more often than not, if the argument never started itself, I’d give it the ignition t it needed.
Why did I love it so much? I did usually come out on top, and that delicious, fiery hot taste of success when you know your opponent has nothing more to fight with was irresistible. It was like a sport to me, and since I was never athletically inclined, it was my only real victory over another.
It’s been many years since my last all-out-word-war, and over time I realized that few things are worth the energy a real argument takes. Especially the ones that last days — it’s generally all you can think about, planning what you’ll say next, what you’d like to do to that numbskull, and carefully avoiding any internal discovery that you may not be 100% right. That’s not to say that you should let everything slide or let someone walk over you, but you should really weigh whether it’s worth the effort. I mean, you could save that energy to pump some iron, or write an epic ballad, or go shopping or something.
I’ve also recently realized that it truly takes two people to start a fight. Which is both obvious and infuriating. “Hell no!” you might say, “that betch started it. She came at me like a spider-monkey and there was nothing I could do to stop it from happening.” Startling imagery aside, in fact I’ve found that just as I can stubborn my way into a “win”, I can ignore my way out of a potential confrontation. I’m not championing passive-aggressiveness, or ignoring things that bug you until you spew them out in a pyroclastic flow all over innocent bystanders. But again, it’s a weighing of your options — yes, I can tell that you’re ticked off here, and you’ve thrown out a couple of juicy jabs at me that I could return. I could ask what the hell your problem is and find out that you think I eyed your man or something and we could really go at it in a fury of texts for the next few hours. Yet if I don’t take the bait, if I ignore the fact that you want to pick a fight with me, if I continue to be my lovely and gracious self and wish you safe travels and a Happy New Year, then I get to go on with my merry life. Have a nice mug of cider and watch some bad TV. Rock out to some Journey.
It’s only through the crippling humility of love that I have ever accepted defeat and been willing to make the first move after a fight. A fight is only worth pursuing if you can spare the hours away from the person you’re mad at. And this late in life, if you’re willing to hold out for a fight with me, I have to wonder if you are worth it. I’m jealous of my time, and if you’re just going to waste it then why would I make the effort to give you any?
Granted, this is a little belated but I posted it on our company blog at the appropriate time.
The first thing you should know is that Halloween is my favorite. I haven’t had a store-bought costume since age 6. And while my efforts have ranged from Miss Piggy to the Queen of Spades to Darth Maul (with an intense three-hour makeup job), my dream costume was an apple tree.
It may not sound particularly exciting, but I was in love with the idea of being so realistic that I would ring people’s doorbells, scurry off into the grass, and bask in their confusion as unsuspecting homeowners opened their door to find no rosy-cheeked child, but a great green apple tree that wasn’t there a minute ago. “Oh my,” I envisioned them saying as they scratched their heads, “where on earth did that apple tree come from? Was that always there?” Then I would let them in on the joke, pause graciously for the round of applause and move on to the next house.
This played out in my mind every single Halloween, but I built it up so much that I was (and am) a little intimidated to try it. Alas, the closest I ever got was a full-body cat outfit, which indeed confused my two cats and my grandpa, but lacked the satisfaction I envisioned my apple tree would give.
You see, my favorite parts of Halloween are the mystery, the youthful spirit and the fact that your only job on this one day is to have fun and, if you’re lucky, treat someone else to a little happiness.
A theorem. Theory. What have you.
A girl cannot pass up a good sale. There, I said it. Scavengers by nature, we’re constantly and unavoidably drawn to getting something at a discount. Things we don’t need. Things we don’t even want. Things that don’t quite fit, or look quite right, but God help me it’s half-price and maybe one day in the next 5 years I’ll need a faux leopard-print capelet. Be honest ladies, how many unworn items have you shoved into your Goodwill trash bag along with your bitter remorse for buying something just because it was on sale?
Not to say it’s a bad thing, and certainly we often brag about the steals we’ve made by spending an hour digging through the clearance rack. Some classy French dame may disagree, “Zis Luuuis Vwuitton bag cost me an entiyer month’s salareee and trois bottles of champagne.” “Well,” your savvy American gal will reply, “I found this bag in the 75% off bin AND I had a $10 coupon on top of my 15% store discount. They actually paid me $0.35 for this. And then gave me an award for Most Awesome at Life.”
But I’ve recently noticed that this mentality creeps into other aspects of life, and that, my lady friends, is where it will get you into trouble. One such lady friend recently told me how touched she was when a friend she had casually seen last year confessed that he was willing to change his partying man-tramp ways and only wanted to be with her. She was so touched she started to consider… although she didn’t really have feelings for him and knew it was unfair to lead him on… well he was right there. He certainly wasn’t THE one, he was a little young for her and didn’t quite match her lifestyle or her shoes… but he was available. Standing in the rain (ok, I don’t think it was really raining), offering commitment and promising companionship. Maybe he would grow on her. Maybe she could make him fit, run him through the wash a few times to stretch out, or just remember to suck it in and stand up really straight everytime she had him around. He was saying the things she’d hoped to hear from another, less available man, and it’s just so tempting to snatch something up when it’s the right price.
A girl simply cannot pass up a sale.
But here’s the thing: no one ever gets pure delight from an item just because it was on sale. The purchases you really love, that make you feel like a million-dollar-Nobel-prize-winning-supermodel — you would pay anything for. The way you feel in it is worth full-price. Maybe more.
I have this red trench coat I bought online at Nordstrom’s. I was looking for a different kind of coat, but I saw this and knew that it must be mine. It’s quite a statement, with a really interesting cut and bold color, and I wasn’t even sure if I could pull it off. It was wayyyy more than I needed to spend, but I put it right into my virtual cart and virtually high-fived the virtual cashier. When it arrived, I put it on and felt like a total spy. I have to wear at least 3-inch heals when it rains now so I can stomp my way through puddles and all the small people in my life while wearing my very favorite trench coat.
The point is that it’s worth it. Don’t jump at something just because it’s there and it kind of seems like it might be useful. Your happiness is worth the wait. You deserve top-shelf, exclusive, first-class, premium plus, grade-A, red rope, haute couture, private limo, best-table-in-the-house, orchestra seating, don’t you think?
I love Halloween. That statement probably goes farther than any other to explain about me. I start thinking about costumes in mid-September. I have a list. I always wanted to be a hyper-realistic apple tree. But that’s another story…
This weekend, my very patient BF and I started our costume research. I’ve been circling around the concepts of Amelia Earhart, or a twofer as Eliza Doolittle and Henry Higgins. We were searching for old fancy hats, some goggles, a nice aviator scarf, anything to inspire the creative juices. (They taste like pomegranate, by the way. Those juices do.) After driving by two or three closed antiques stores (an ironic relic of the past, it would seem), we passed… The Garret.
The Garret is a self-described Victorian Eclectic house in downtown Bloomington, complete with authentic limestone, slate shingles, and, well, some garrets I suppose. Passing it on foot, you wonder whether it’s really a store, or maybe a warehouse where old dusty junk goes to die. In the mood for a little adventure, I said, “Let’s check it out!” Dubious BF looked at me with concern, but I assured him that since it was a lovely autumn Sunday, and it was daylight after all, surely it wouldn’t be too bad. I mean, who sets a scary story at any other time than on a dark and stormy night? We walked up the front porch, read the sign that said “The Batman House*”, opened the door with trepidation, and to the ominous jingling of sleigh bells we peeked inside…
At this point, my good sensible friend Justin’s voice rang clear as those bells in my head, “Turn around, bitch!” But as surely as I knew this was Possibly the Last Place I’d Ever See on This Sweet Earth, I knew I must continue inside. The bells really gave us away, as was no doubt their evil intention. Every inch of floor was stacked with dusty glass, lamp shades, nick knacks, chotchkies, whosits and whatsits. From behind some nook and/or cranny, an ancient lady who seemed to think bras were not period enough came out and asked what we were looking for. Did I reply, “The fastest way out of here”? “A good excuse to leave immediately”? “The entry into the netherworld you have hidden so cleverly with that roll-top desk”? No, “hats,” is what came out, and as she inevitably told us that the only hats and clothes she had were upstairs, again Justin’s voice cried to my conscience, “Run, bitch! Don’t you go up those stairs you crazy bitch!” (He gets very abusive when horror situations present themselves in my head.)
After a quick, courteous peek upstairs we snuck back out, thankful to have found our way through the maze of the decades-worth of crap. Honestly I was surprised not to have found a a couple hundred cats, or juicy skeleton, or a… basement full of albino children.
Anyway, its amazing to find new places in a town I thought I’d scoured every corner of.
Oh, and happy fall 
*Note: Once in high school for a folklore project I did grave rubbings in Rose Hill Cemetery (where many an illustrous relative are interred), I in fact came across Batman’s grave. It’s good to have some further confirmation that he existed. And apparently… moved to Bloomington. To fight… underage drinking and rowdy fratties.
…what happened? I was looking for an ancient list of costume ideas on the old livejournal, and I’m always impressed with how awesome I used to be.
A little help? Would anyone get Amelia Earhart if I just wear a hot bomber jacket and get some goggles?
Have you ever gotten good news that really just made you feel worse than before you heard it?
I’ll give you an example. Two years ago, when I was fresh out of college and fresh out of job prospects, I was asked to come back for a second interview at a “marketing” company up in Indy. I was super excited — this was the farthest I’d gotten on the hiring process all summer. I drove up in my snappy little suit, and found out I’d be shadowing one of the marketing reps for a full 8-hour day. I proceeded to go on about 15 cold calls to businesses in the outlying Indianapolis areas trying to sell them credit card processing services. At about noon, I thought, “Ok, ok. I could do this. If I really had to, I could do this. Plus there’ll be training for a few weeks, then a shadowing period, so it’s not like I’ll just be thrown into it.” But at the first stop after lunch, I realized, “Hell no. Hell. NOOOOOOOO. I have to get the fuck outta here, this is the worst thing for me ever. There is no way I could do this even for one day. No matter how desperate.”
So we got back to the office, and after a short discussion between the supervisor and the girl I was following all day, they called me in. And offered me the job. On the spot. My stomach fell to my toes, and I squeaked out that I’d need some time. I smiled, shook their hands, got in my car, and started crying hysterically. I pulled over to a McDonald’s to call my bff. Here was a job, a real-life money-making job, here in my hands. This was the farthest I’d gotten after months of rejection. What if there was nothing but this available to me? But how on earth could I force myself to go back there. It was good news that destroyed my fragile emotions. It was confusing…
I eventually calmed down, got in my car, and on the drive home realized what I’d known all along: this was not the job for me. It was just something that could be done by someone with my capabilities. But it wasn’t mine. Mine would come, eventually, and if I had to wait a little longer for it, then so be it. It would be just that much sweeter when I found it.
I recently got some news that — while good and overdue — made me really depressed. I liken it to finding out you’re really good at something you don’t want to be really good at. Like, strangling kittens. I mean, sure, it’s nice to know that you have a certain skill-set, but it doesn’t mean I want to be strangling kittens for the rest of my life.
If a decision is really tearing you up inside, if it makes you nauseous to think about acting on that “good news”, well, you know the answer then, don’t you?
…I’d take some scissors to an old pair of jeans if I didn’t have me some baggy shorts today. The Indiana summer makes white trash of us all. Doesn’t this look like a great idea right about now?
(By the way, doesn’t this just look like a stroke of genius?)
Let’s not even talk about the Bluegrass festival I went to with my dad this weekend. I’m surprised I only saw one representation of the Confederate flag. It was only on a t-shirt lapel anyway. And in case you were thinking, “Who the hell would go to a Bluegrass festival in southern Indiana?”, tell me you didn’t see O Brother, Where Art Thou and wish you could sing with the Soggy Bottom Boys. They were at the festival, btw (the real band, not that pretty George Clooney) and they were great. There’s something sort of ethereal and primordial about this music that calls to me…
Makes me wish I’d followed my mother’s dream to become Jenny Lou, the country star.
I drove to work on Thursday through the very beginning of a thunderstorm. The sky was that dark green that portends tornadoes, it was sprinkling in a menacing way, and in my peripheral vision I could see bright flashes reflected in the clouds. I looked for something to appreciate on such a dreary day…
I came to a stop and looked up: the most fantastic streaks of lightning were passing between clouds in a mesmerizing pattern. How could something so powerful and deadly look so delicate? It made my breath catch. Seeing a definable bolt of lightning is so rare I felt privileged to witness it. Time seemed to pause for a split second as I watched the bright lines linger in the sky for longer than seemed possible. Like so many of the rarest and most beautiful moments in life, an event you expected to flash by all too quickly is suspended for just a heartbeat longer and imprinted indelibly in your memory.
I used to see God in every sunrise. As my faith faltered and my cynicism grew, my sight edged lower and lower until I only saw the ground directly in front of me. And it was wet. And covered in mud. And it would probably freeze later anyway, and I’d probably fall on my big fat butt in front of a crowd of cute, guitar-playing Frenchmen. I remember a day as a junior in college when I looked up on my way to class, and noticed not only how downward-focused I was, but everything I’d been missing. The beautiful colors of the autumn leaves. The way the sun found a hole through the clouds. A squirrel using his tail as an umbrella. Now I see the sunrise again, and although everyone else in Eastern Standard Time can look at the exact same thing, I feel like I’m the only person to see it.
Pay attention. There’s beauty all around you; there’s something to lift your spirit. Look up.
This whole concept of “energy” seems to have been following me around for awhile.
1) First I heard it from Dog Whisperer Ceasar Milan… suuure, I just change my energy by thinking calmly and assertively and dogs will behave and follow me around and clean up their own poop. I mean, how can you trust such a well-manicured man? I believe that he uses his unnaturally white teeth to hypnotize people and their dogs.
2) Then I came across Jill Bolte-Taylor’s incredible Ted speech. Jill is a neuroscientist who suffered a stroke in her early thirties, and she tells the amazing story of experiencing her body and mind shut down from the inside during her stroke. After the stroke, she could no longer understand speech, but she could understand energy. Positive energy in those around her helped her heal; negative energy drained her. At our most basic level – once you strip away your internal dialogue, language, memory of your life story – you are simply an animal who responds to the energy around you.
3) Finally, the physician father of one of my coworkers (and good friend) came to our office to speak about managing stress through Heart Math. He talked about the physical and chemical reactions your body has to stress, and how shifting your energy into a positive area will improve your health and lead to a virtuous cycle – the more positive you are, the more your body makes the chemicals that make you feel happy, etc.
I remember that in high school I was disgusted by and admittedly jealous of those people who seemed eternally, unapologetically happy all the time. The cheerleaders of life, they walked the halls with a bright smile on their face and were easily excited by the smallest of good fortune. I wondered what would happen if I smiled more, even when I didn’t feel like it. What would happen if I celebrated small victories with more than my natural sarcastic and oh-so-hip indifference?
So I tried it. I walked around with a smile on my face. I giggled with joy when a boy looked at me in the hall. I did a dance in my head at every Aced test (and don’t fool yourself, there were quite a few). I felt silly at first, but then I noticed that it got easier and easier. I smiled in the morning and then I felt like smiling all day. You can fake your way into a true good mood.
In the words of Dr. McKinley, “Instead of letting something aggravate you, find something about it to appreciate.” Your boss is going to keep coming to your desk and demanding unreasonable deadlines from you. Instead of tensing your jaw and your butt cheeks every time she approaches, appreciate the fact that at least she waited until after lunch to ruin your day. Appreciate that she got dressed today. Appreciate that she hasn’t fired you. Instead of grumbling at the rain on your way to work, take a moment to look up and appreciate the mysterious beauty of the lightning show that’s playing out thousands of feet above you.
Change your energy any way you can, even if you have to fake it at first. See if you don’t feel happier in spite of your cynical and oh-so-hip self.
Yes this is from one of those Facebook-frenzied memes that is sooo two months ago, but it was an exercise that reminded me why I loved blogging. So sue me.
25 Things
1. When I was little, I wanted to BE a cat.
2. I’m a little bit afraid of stairs. I have to be able to see my feet when I go down. I think this is due to my natural lack of balance.
3. I probably have the largest privately-owned collection of nail polish. I keep it in my purple Caboodle circa 1992. This is probably due to my Catholic school upbringing where nail polish was strictly prohibited.
4. Despite my fluctuations in belief, sitting through a Catholic mass in France and in Ireland was amazingly comforting and safe. I love the beautiful, peaceful austerity of a quiet church when no one’s around.
5. I get my cruel sarcasm from my mom, and my goofy inappropriate humor from my dad.
6. I’m kind of a wizard at Excel. And PowerPoint. Most Office products.
7. I love live musical performances.
8. When I was 2, my mom was asked to have me participate in a research experiment. There were 3 stairs of varying heights, each with a box of toys at the top, the goal being to see which set of stairs the toddlers would climb. I sat down on the nearest flight and played with the styrofoam lining the stairs so the kids wouldn’t fall off. The researchers told my mom that my data was unusable.
9. I think maybe I should have been born a gay man. What with the love of Bette Midler and musicals and such.
10. I like being fancy.
11. I totally won the girl’s division in our first grade typing class. I didn’t even practice.
12. I never thought I’d be a dog owner. (But I like it).
13. My biggest pet peeve is when people make intransitive verbs transitive. Like, “Thank you for shopping Kmart,” or “David Copperfield will vanish 18 people from the audience!” My biggest pet peeve also makes me sound like an ass.
14. I wanted to be an interior decorator until my dad told me I was too smart for that.
15. If I could do anything and not worry about money, I’d be a writer. Mostly random thoughts like David Sedaris… I don’t have the patience to form a fully-developed story.
16. I was constantly in awe when I was in France. I couldn’t believe I was actually seeing the things I’d read about, and there was a part of me that believed I could never go.
17. I hate the shape I’ve become.
18. I loved working at a TV station, even though my job was technical and boring. I just liked being around the action.
19. I’m probably thinking “That’s what she said” after 85% of the sentences you say.
20. In high school, I made a pact with my 2 best friends that if we weren’t in serious relationships (or maybe if we hadn’t had a serious relationship) by the time we were 30 we’d go into a convent together. But as that future started to look a little too close I decided I’d rather be a crazy cat lady instead. Because then you don’t have to be good and quiet, and I can throw cats at people.
21. I can’t believe my incredible dumb luck at finding someone who can put up with all this craziness.
22. I saw Star Wars: Phantom Menace 7 times. In the theater.
23. I saw Kid Rock in concert. With my mom. Tenacious D opened.
24. I never thought I’d find a group of friends as amazing as my high school posse until I went to France. I’m so proud of all of my friends and what they’re doing in the world.
25. The most comforting place to me is a bookstore. When I’m really depressed I’ll go browse for an hour or two.
And we’re workin’ on the design here, please be patient.
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