Meccanized

It’s 2 am, and I can’t sleep.

Part of it might be the absurd amount of food churning in my stomach (I got a little too friendly with the chocolate fountain at Darden prom). Another part might be that my feet are throbbing (dancing my face off in high heels…looks good, feels horrible). But I think the real reason is that I’m just generally feeling restless right now. And this blog is way cheaper than therapy.

About every 6 months I go through a mild crisis of self where in some form or another I start wondering if I’m living “correctly” and doing things the “right” way. It’s stressful but the introspection (i.e. mental masturbation – almost as much fun as real masturbation!) is always interesting. The topic on the agenda for this mid-year freak-out is whether the way I am naturally inclined to live my life is no longer the way I should be living my life. If this makes you want to slam your head into a table until you lose consciousness, feel free to check out lighter fare in this post or this one.

Most people who know me would say that I’m the one who is usually up for anything, and the more ridiculous the better. It’s the ridiculous experiences that make the best stories, and I love to have stories to tell. And not just any stories, either. I want the conversation-stopping, choke-on-your-food from laughter, “this is something that would only happen to you” stories. And I’ve done a pretty good job of being an experience collector (with an overdeveloped sense of the absurd) over the years.

There are definitely upsides to this approach to life. For one, it’s fun. Second, I am 100% confident that in any given stage of my life, I have gotten the most out of it that I possibly can, and that’s a pretty cool feeling; I rarely feel regret that I should have done more, because I have a strong innate sense of whether or not I’ll feel bad about missing an opportunity, and if I will, I make sure not to miss it. Third, going and doing has been my way of figuring myself out, of defining personal boundaries and learning who I am and who I’m not. Sure, some things I perhaps didn’t need to do even once to figure out that I wouldn’t ever do them again, but those mistakes were valuable, too. All of this is good.

But I worry that I’m too old to still be approaching life this way. And even more than that, I worry that I’m not taken seriously because of it. At this stage of my life, shouldn’t I be…calmer? Shouldn’t I have my boundaries figured out and solidified by now? Shouldn’t I pick one or two hobbies to do consistently rather than trying a bunch of new things just for the hell of it? I have passions I dive into deeply, but I get equally excited about doing interesting, random one-offs. A BYOB pole dancing class here. A trip to a Scientology center there. Three hours ago, I agreed to train for a race using the Zombie method (no joke — it is a running training program where you pretend you are being chased by Zombies to motivate you…I KNOW, DOESN’T IT SOUND ABSURD?!)

I know I’m a serious person. I have depth. I think about and can speak intelligently about a wide variety of socially relevant topics. But I worry these things don’t come across when I meet people. Instead, I worry I seem like a good time gal. Someone who is always up for fun. Quick with a joke. Bubbly. Friendly. But not the person you take seriously. Consider for career advancement. Marry.  I guess there is a part of me that feels like I need to grow up, calm the crap down, stop doing things for the stories and start…like…being a legit adult. One who can talk politics. And cook a meal that looks like a meal and not like something that fell from above. And whose furniture matches. And who seems polished and sophisticated.

I like to think there is a way to meld these two worlds, but I haven’t figured it out yet.

As a kid, I loved to jump in leaf piles.

Ok, let’s be honest. As an adult, I love to jump in leaf piles. And because of my stature and general adorableness, I can…whenever I want…and it doesn’t seem weird. If people see a 6’2” guy jumping in a leaf pile by himself, they might think he was crazy…or they might look around and try to spot his white, windowless child molester van that clearly must be nearby. If people see me jumping in a leaf pile by myself, the worst people think is “man, that 8 year old has big boobs.”

Bottom line – I’m always up for a good leaf pile romp. But this morning, the leaf piles of the world united and took their revenge.

There were three men blowing leaves outside of the gym around 9 am. Two of them had simple hand-held leaf blowers but one had, like, the mother of all leaf blowers. It looked like a Zamboni with a giant fan on the back of it – no leaf was safe from that thing, let me tell you. Clearly they had been working for a while, because there were already several piles of leaves right by the sidewalk where I was walking. Perhaps that should have been my first clue to walk on the other side of the street, but I was distracted by Toto blessing the rains on Pandora and wasn’t paying much attention.

I can’t really tell you exactly what happened next (it all happened so fast!), but this is what I remember: I saw the Zamboni-esque machine hurtling towards me at the speed of light and then turn suddenly, about 4 feet away from me, heard a loud “WHUMP” and then everything went dark…

…because I was fucking COVERED in leaves. Millions of tiny pieces of leaves. Wet. Dry. Everywhere. In my face, in my mouth, on my clothes, in my raccoon wounds. As the dust settled, I heard the laughter of a few law school students on the other side of the street (assholes). But no one was laughing louder than the three leaf blowers, all of whom were doubled over in hysterics. To steal an expression I recently learned from a very charming young man “Graaaaaaahhhhhhttttt.”

I didn’t really know what to do, so I stuck out my arms and took a little bow, pieces of woodland glory falling from every inch of my being. I then gathered what was left of my pride, went inside and composed this post on my phone.

Leaves. Leaf blowers. Law students. All Meccanized.

When I was a freshman in college, I was set up on a date with a very handsome sophomore. Like, be still my beating heart handsome. Like, I have never seen anyone so beautiful handsome. Like, I might soil myself if you even look in my general direction handsome. So yeah, I was nervous.

We went to an Italian restaurant with a few of my friends and their dates prior to a formal dance. The group started talking about hobbies, and my beautiful, beautiful man turned to me and asked, “So, Lindsay, what do you like to do for fun?”

…

What did I like to do for fun? I had no idea. My brain was completely blank, erased by the lush, rolling blue waves of his eyes. I became extremely aware of the seconds passing after this very basic question was met by my complete and utter silence. My friends were slowly growing mortified on my behalf as I struggled to come up with anything to say. I was holding a breadstick in my hand, and in a moment I have not yet lived down, I said the first thing that came into my head: “Uh…I like to eat…a lot.”

That’s right, boys….form a line.

I tried to laugh it off, but the sense of embarrassment for me and about me at that table was palpable. Wah wah!

But now, 10 years later, I am comfortable with my gluttony and am in no way ashamed to admit that, yes, I in fact like to eat…a lot…and prefer to surround myself with people who  find that charming and only mildly disgusting.

Which is why I am writing about an epic journey I took today with six
worthy companions with one goal in mind: to eat ourselves into a stupor at the world famous Dr. Ho’s Humble Pie.

There were nachos!

And pizza!

And Pepsi! (rookie mistake. LOVE THE BRAND!!!but I should
have known better than to suck down a carbonated drink on top of pounds of nachos and pizza)

Oh My!

I took one of the boxes of leftover pizza home and immediately put it on my bathroom scale – 4 slices weighed just under 5 pounds. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t pretty impressed with myself.

Of course, I am now sitting on my couch, one eye half closed, pants open and breathing really heavily.

Seriously boys…form a line.

A few years ago, I was riding the 22 Muni in SF en route to some crazy adventure or another. I stood from my seat in anticipation of getting off the bus (hello, neurotic) and apparently caught the eye of a few…oh how to say this nicely…horizontally-affluent, Crabbe & Goyle-looking lady bullies across the aisle. They started laughing, whispering and pointing at me. That progressed to hollering across the bus aisle at me, calling me a “little mini midget” (department of redundancy department, much?) and asking if I had trouble reaching the pull cord to stop the bus. (I don’t, for the record.) When I continued to ignore them, they came over, got in my face and the bigger girl said “you must be so embarrassed! I can’t even believe you go out in public when you’re that short.” The other snorted “good one” and basically drooled with laughter. Mmm…yummy. I continued to ignore them until we all got off at the same stop. Now, I can’t really explain how I grew such big balls so quickly, but when their teasing continued on the sidewalk, I turned around and shot: “Look, I can wear heels. There’s no quick fix for being fat, ignorant bitches.” (Oh, my mother would be so proud of me…) Then, fearing that I would get the snot kicked out of me in front of the line of homeless people on Haight Street, I basically turned and ran.

Lame as it is, that’s a defining moment in my life. I don’t usually seek out confrontation, and I rarely have zingers at the tip of my tongue, but somehow in that moment, the stars aligned and I felt really proud that I stood up (though not too tall) for myself.

I was reminded of that 22 trip just now. I was at the gym, elliptical-ing like a fiend, and one of my favorite songs came on. What do you think I did? Smile a little and bop my head? HELL NO. I rocked out! Singing along, dancing around as much as you can on the elliptical and generally looking like an idiot (and how!). There was even a little air guitar in there. And then out of the corner of my eye, I noticed two girls huddled together staring at me and giggling. Now, I honestly have no idea what they were laughing about, and it most likely had absolutely nothing to do with me, but I started to feel embarrassed. For a second, I quieted down and tried to look more like a normal human and less like Richard Simmons on crack.

And then, something magical happened. The old dude on the elliptical next to me started singing…loudly…to the Jefferson Airplane song he was listening to. I looked over at him, he looked at me and big grins broke out on both our faces. Then came the nerd-tastic high-five. Seriously, movie moment to the Nth degree! The only thing that would have made it better were if he were about 30 years younger, looked like Jeremy Renner and asked me to do some squat-thrusts with him…but now I’ve ventured into a whole different kind of movie.

There is no shortage of things that make you feel bad about yourself. As someone who categorically says the most awkward things at the most awkward times, I know. But these little moments are gold and remind me that the days are way more fun if you just be yourself without worrying, and the people who are worth a damn are the ones who not only appreciate your weirdness but are more than happy to sing along.

Dear USPS,

After years of delivering my mail, I think you have a pretty good idea who I am and what I’m all about. You’ve seen all the bills, paid on time. You’ve brought me good news in the form of college and grad school acceptances and bad news in the form of rent hikes and rejections from literary journals. You probably know more about my life than some of my closest friends.

Which is why it is so upsetting that you didn’t realize how much it would piss me off that you are tardy in getting me my Wire DVDs.

I had things perfectly planned so that I could have one night – ONE NIGHT – where I could sit, uninterrupted, and take in a few episodes of Season 2 before life gets hectic again. There is even snow and ice falling from the sky – it’s like the Universe saying “Yes, Lindsay, this night is my gift to you. It’s too cold to brave the outside world, too dangerous to drive anywhere. I want you to take this night and waste it absorbing TV…no, not TV…HBO.” But when I flung open my mailbox, eyes filling with excitement like a kid on Christmas morning, fingers fluttering in anticipation of holding that little red envelopes, did I find Bubs and Omar waiting for me? No. No, I did not. In the words of McNulty and Bunk in Season 1, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Now, I’m sitting here typing this post, watching the storm worsen outside and longing to know the identity of the female body floating in Baltimore Harbor, to see what deal Avon Barksdale is able to cut with prison officials by offering information on the tainted the heroin supply and to hear the melodic chorus of “Way Down in the Hole” filling my apartment.

Damn you, USPS.

Meccanized,

Lindsay

My friend Dave once proclaimed that his ideal woman would be good at math and smell like burritos.

I’ve always liked this description, and I started thinking about it again this weekend, when, for some reason, I was forced to defend my love of “The Notebook” on three separate occasions. Apparently, no one in Bethesda, MD has a soul.

One such conversation revolved around this anecdote, that a woman dumped her fiancee because he said he wouldn’t build her a house a la Noah and Allie in Nicolas Sparks’ finely crafted masterpiece. I sided with the woman, proclaiming to a handsome gentleman I had just met that I would expect my fiancee to build me a house to prove his love; yes, it’s that kind of crazy that has felled so many, many men over the years.

Of course, I was kidding about the house. It’s romantic to watch Ryan Gosling hammer nails for love, but in reality, all I can imagine is a lifetime of my asking him to take out the garbage and him whining “I built this whole house with my bare hands, and you can’t carry a trash bag five feet to the can?” But it is fun to think about what romantic gestures I’d actually want to see from a significant other. Assuming all the basics — kindness, a sense of humor, similar values, height to make up for my lackthereof, here is what I’ve come up with:

- Willing to watch “The Notebook” with me.  And find my endless stream of tears and choked “Awws” charming. Repeat for basically any other chick flick and most episodes of “Friday Night Lights.”

- Does whatever he has to to make sure that nary a sprig of cilantro ever crosses my path.

- Does not automatically poke me in the spine the second I tell him I hate having my spine touched. For the record, every single guy I’ve dated has failed on this count, and one even got punched in the face for it (it was an involuntary reflex…I swear).

- Automatically picks up my bag and puts it in the overhead bin without asking if I need help.

- After the bag is stowed and the plane starts to taxi, takes my hand before I grab his. DOES NOT look at the wing and say “Oh my God, is that piece supposed to be that loose?” and then laugh maniacally when I panic.

- When we’re riding on public transportation, always moves to the door a few minutes before the actual stop, because he also has a chronic fear of not getting through the crowd of people fast enough to make the timed doors and then having the vehicle pull away with everyone knowing that you were supposed to get off at that stop but couldn’t because you were too slow.

I don’t think I’m asking for a unicorn here, right?

Please, tell me about your metaphorical hand-built houses!

To quote Homer Simpson: “Every time I learn something new it pushes something old out of my brain. Remember when I took that home winemaking class and forgot how to drive?”

After a 5 hour accounting exam and 5 hours more of paper-writing, I was ready for dinner but didn’t want to put in much effort. What on earth is simpler than pasta? It’s the first meal everyone learns to make, and it is the only meal that some (wonderful) gentlemen in my life are capable of cooking.

Tonight I learned that at 27, after saturing my brain with all sorts of fancy new business knowledge, many things are simpler for me than cooking pasta. Here’s a short list:

- Converting a LIFO reserve into FIFO inventory

- Determining the weighted average cost of capital to determine if a capital expenditure would add value

- Calculating consumption adjusted margins to determine what level of trade promotion a manufacturer needs to offer a retailer to incentivize them to set a certain in-store price

All these things I can do better than feeding myself.

I put water in a pot, dumped in some whole wheat rigatoni and set it on the stove to boil. I thawed some ground turkey, put it in a pan with some olive oil, tomatoes, olives and spices and set it on the stove to simmer. I walked out of the kitchen and sat down with my computer to “study for my next exam” (i.e. watch Friday Night Lights via Netflix) while my food cooked. After 5 minutes, I popped my head into the kitchen to check the status of the meat and make sure the pot wasn’t boiling over — all looked well. 10 minutes later it occurred to me that I didn’t smell any simmering meat or hear any popping water, so I went back to the kitchen to investigate.

Had I turned on either burner? Nope. Had my pasta been sitting in a pot of tepid tap water for 15 minutes? Yup. Was my raw meat resting in clumps while a few sprigs of rosemary floated limply on a puddle of olive oil? You betcha.

Apparently, to make room for my MBA, my brain pushed out the most critical part of making pasta or really any hot meal: cook it.

I need a vacation.

If I had to pick one lesson I’ve truly come to appreciate since August, it’s this: you can’t fit a square peg in a round hole.

For a variety of reasons, this seems especially relevant tonight.

Square pegs and round holes…Meccanized.

I ask you — what else could possibly go wrong this weekend?

Perhaps I could get sick during our final exam period? Done.

Perhaps my computer could melt down…twice…during said final exam period? Check. Of course, had I known how brutal exams were going to be, I would have prayed to any higher or lower power that would listen to allow my computer to stay dead forever. Without getting into all the gory details, “No” meant “Yes” to my Decision Analysis final. Or, to throw in a little B school humor, “That shit Crystal Balled me.”

Maybe my apartment could become a refugee camp for all bugs in the continental US? It’s like I accidentally set up the Roach Motel, excpet it’s an actual motel for roaches, and not a clever name for a device that kills roaches. The upside is that I never feel lonely, because I have about 4,000 little roommates. The downside is, I HAVE BUGS ALL OVER MY APARTMENT. I’ve taken to running around like a crazy person with a fly swatter in one hand and my vacuum cleaner roaring in the other. In the times that I get overwhelmed, a nice Australian gentleman who lives nearby is always on deck to come over and help me. I bet if we get married, he will tell the story of the wood beetle that brought the two of us together. I will weep silently in the corner.

How about if some assclown hits my beautiful car, my pride and joy and dislodges a tail light, scrapes some paint off and cracks the bumper, and then drives away without leaving a note? My heart is heavy for The Paul Carr tonight.

I’m going to lump this whole weekend under the umbrella of “I guess you need these types of days now and again to put things in perspective.” I just hope the perspective flood is over so I can get back to taking things like my health and living in a bug-free apartment for granted.

Oh, how it pains me

SmartArt, Functions, Solver, Charts

Matame…so hard.

I would type more, but I’m too exhausted.

Microsoft. Meccanized.