And The Oscar Goes To…

The Oscars are fast approaching — a favorite event of the year. Billy Crystal, song and dance, Ernst and Young, “It’s an honor just to be nominated (please, oh please),” secret envelopes, glitzy tedium, “I’d like to thank every breathing soul in the Western hemisphere…”.

Since the nominations were just announced, here’s my two cents along with some unbiased (ha!) perspective.

First, I think The Artist should win. Every award. Even ones it’s not nominated for. It’s an incredible movie. Delightful and unbelievably uplifting. Really a one-of-a-kind, special flick. Drop whatever you are doing and go see it. Multiple times. (Full disclosure: I was interning with The Weinstein Company when they acquired it. This does NOT imply that I had anything to do with Harvey Weinstein’s brilliant business decision to back the movie. But I like to think that my silent, happy cleaning of the conference rooms inspired him to purchase that silent, happy film.)

A few points on other Best Picture nominees: I was underwhelmed by The Descandants, but Moneyball was right down the strike zone and Hugo was a charmer.

I threw up a little in my mouth when I saw that The Help was on the list. I cried like a little girl when I read The Help, because it was such a moving and engaging story. I cried again after watching The Help, because I was so pissed that I invested a space in my Netflix queue and now had to wait 3 days to get The Mentalist, Season 1 Disc 2.

Tree of Life. First, my feeeeeeeelm opinion. Terrance Malick made the film he wanted without pandering to the average audience, so good for him. It’s visually beautiful and I really loved the middle segment about family and growing up. Unfortunately, that was 45 minutes of love in an otherwise abusive 2.5 hour relationship. The first segment was like back footage from Planet Earth, and there are no words to describe how useless the final segment was.  I found it so pretentious and overdone that I started laughing five minutes in and was asked to either quiet down or leave the theater. It was a tough choice, but I gutted it out ’cause I’m classy like that.  In my non-feeeeeeelm opinion – this movie is best enjoyed under the influence of a mind-altering substance. Perception bending isn’t my thing, ergo I would have rather driven needles through my eyes.

Oh, and did I mention that this year there was no greater movie than The Artist?

Best Actor: Three Haikus

Who’s this Bichir guy?

Where the eff is Fassbender…

…and Michael Shannon?


Phew! Gary Oldman…

Long overdue and Brad Pitt

Should win in ten years


Clooney’s just Clooney

Dujardin is amazing

Didn’t say a word!

Best Actress:

I’d bet a kidney that everyone was praying Meryl wouldn’t get a nomination for The Iron Lady. Let’s be honest, if Meryl is nominated, your chances are better buying a lottery ticket.

Big breakout performance for Rooney Mara. Good for her, the nomination will jump start her career. The performances in My Week With Marilyn and Albert Nobbs were supposed to have been good but I haven’t seen them yet. They will likely cancel each other out in the voting like desperate Republican candidates. (Santorum as Marilyn Monroe, Paul as Albert Nobbs… but that’s a blog for another day…)

A big omission here IMO was Tilda Swinton (We Need to Talk About Kevin). Didn’t love the movie (it made me question why anyone would want to have children), but her performance was solid.

Best Director:

All of the directors directed well (even Malick with Tree of Life…ugh, it pained me to say that), but Michel Hazanavicius set a new paradigm when he helmed The Artist, so this trophy belongs to him.

Original Screenplay: (the category I dream of winning one day…seriously, I practice my acceptance speech in the shower at least twice a week)

Although a bit ironic, The Artist should win here hands down. Inherently, the script was a masterpiece of detail, careful thought and impeccable staging. I must admit that the dialogue was a bit weak, though.

Best Song:

It had better be The Muppets or heads will roll. And thank God W.E. didn’t get nominated for this category like it did at the Golden Globes. I’d have to hang myself if Madonna were to give another smug, self-indulgent acceptance speech in her faux-British accent. “… MY movie, MY script, MY song, MY projector, MY popcorn, MY has-been persona…”

All in all, a good year for films! I am always up for a wild and crazy discussion of cinema, so feel free to leave your thoughts in the comments! I also will be catching up on the movies I’ve missed before February 26th, so join me if you have time. I promise I’ll keep the cinephile douche within me at bay and the conniption fits to a minimum.

P.S.  I really liked The Artist…

Written by lindsay in: Uncategorized |

Why Flakiness Makes Me Drink the Haterade

Flakiness. Aloofness. Lack of consideration.  Combine them and what do you have? A recipe that is almost guaranteed to give me a rage stroke.

I know people are busy. I know things come up. I know the entire world doesn’t revolve around me and my plans. But I firmly believe there is a right way to flake out on someone – infrequently, proactively, with enough advance warning that the flake victim can salvage the time, and ideally through a phone call that provides a proper degree of contrition. Obviously, these can’t always be fully attained, but short of being trapped under some heavy, immovable object, it’s not that hard to come pretty close.

Which is why it is so irritating and disrespectful when people flake incorrectly.

A few days ago, I was quietly and respectfully (i.e. loudly and rantily) speaking to someone about this social phenomenon.  Somehow the discussion evolved into a contest about who had experienced the most absurd flake. He won the battle — I’m sad to say, I couldn’t top the text message cancellation he received half an hour before a Third Eye Blind concert offering: “Sorry, I can’t make it. I forgot I need to bandage my hamster’s leg.”

But in an effort to win the war, this morning I took a 90% amusing, 10% infuriating trip down memory lane to resurrect a few favorite personal examples of inappropriate flaking:

  • Via e-mail, at 9:45 am before a 10 am team meeting: “I can’t make it. I need to finish knitting this doggie sweater by 10:30.” This one was irritating on multiple levels: you all know how I feel about dog fashions, especially knits.
  • Via text, while I was waiting for a gentleman at a bar: “I ordered the Famous Chicken and it takes an hour to cook. I’ll just see you tomorrow.”  Note: I did not see him tomorrow. Or ever again. And just how famous can any one chicken really be?!?
  • Via e-mail, ten minutes before a Boot Camp exercise class a friend had committed to attending with me: “Ate too much ice cream. Count me out.”
  • Via text, fifteen minutes before a mutual friend’s surprise birthday dinner: “Got sucked into a Hoarders marathon. Have fun!” (Funny, but now that I think of it, I never saw THAT person again either.)
  • Sent via text, about Valentine’s Day dinner. “Oh, that’s tonight? I’m still in San Mateo.” Stand back, ladies, this one’s mine.

I am increasingly uncomfortable with my own escalating flakiness, especially since I understand just how obnoxious it can be and how little effort it takes to be base-level considerate. It’s something I am really trying to focus on (hence a 2012 resolution to return phone calls, to be on time, to not cancel anything I commit to, etc.). Of course, my quest for personal betterment has only made me more sensitive to the overt expression of aloof, flaky alleles in other people’s genetic makeups…and it boggles my mind how often I see it happen.

Aloof flakers everywhere… you are Meccanized.

Written by lindsay in: Uncategorized |

I’m Getting Too Old For This Sh*T

I am a heavy sleeper. I have slept through earthquakes, impromptu band rehearsals and the loudest fire alarm in the history of the world. It was so loud that the other people in the house figured no one could possibly sleep through it and so didn’t bother checking my room to see if I was there. When they didn’t see me outside, they assumed I had stayed the night elsewhere. As a result, had it actually been a real fire, I would have been in trouble.

But no depth of sleep could keep me from the ABSURDLY LOUD POUNDING on my door that occurred at 3:45 am on Saturday morning. Still half asleep, I staggered towards the door wondering who the hell might have decided to visit at that hour. In my previous life, random visits at odd hours weren’t that uncommon. Once, someone who shall remain nameless decided to throw pebbles at my window late at night in a romantic gesture…only in his inebriated state he misjudged the size of the “pebbles” and the location of my room and in reality hurled a small boulder that broke through my roommate’s window and nearly gave her a heart attack. But this kind of thing hadn’t yet happened in Virginia. Until Saturday.

3:45 am. Pounding. I asked who it was. I got back “It’s Julia and Amy.” “Um…” I said, “I don’t know you.” Their response? “We’re staying with you. We’ve been here all night.” Deciding what to do was entirely dependent on what genre of movie I had been suddenly and unwittingly thrust into. I was hoping for a RomCom. What I got was an after school special on teen drinking.

I could tell there was no real threat, but I was not letting Julia and Amy into my apartment. I’ll spare you the more boring details of what happened for the next hour, but suffice to say, the conversation that took place through my door was scintillating. I said the phrase “You don’t know me” at least five times. After reading the signed letter that I had taped to my door for UPS, they started referring to me by name, and it took me another 20 minutes to convince them that knowing my name did not, in fact, make me their friend. These two had no idea where they were, how they got there, where they needed to go or where there ride was. Finally, one became coherent enough to call her friend, find out where he was and relay to him the directions I gave to her to get to my building. Around 4:30, they were picked up and I got a loud, slurred “THAAAANNNKKK YOOOOUUUUU!!!!!” that probably woke everyone in a 2-mile radius.

Before anyone says anything about how I handled things…my “too niceness” has been well documented, and I know most of you would have just called the police and been done with it. Fair enough. But what I found more interesting was how I felt after they had left. This whole incident made me feel old…and not really in a bad way.

I never pulled a Robert Downey Jr. and showed up at someone else’s house by mistake, but I’ve had my share of ridiculous nights. At some point, though it wouldn’t have been me telling the story, I probably would have thought it was funny to hear about a friend ending up on a stranger’s doorstep at 4:30 am or…say…waking up in the street 2 miles from campus wearing nothing but a cowboy hat and a drapery of yellow caution tape. I probably would have even thought, “Man, I wish I could have been there.”

Now? I don’t really find it that funny or wish I could have been there. Saturday made me appreciate that the term “ridiculous night” means something entirely different to me in my old age. I think I can officially say that my “ridiculous nights” going forward most likely will not include finding myself coatless in a strange apartment complex at 4:30 am in 30-degree weather. Or dressing in heels that are too high for me to walk in without looking like I’m 8 and wearing my mom’s shoes. Or being so incapacitated that I need tons of help to get home safely.

I’ve crossed some threshold where that just doesn’t seem as funny as it used to. Instead, my ridiculous nights will consist of much more mature things. Like organizing a fake birthday party at a bouncy castle compound. Or splitting a bottle of wine and kicking butt at various Wii games. Or dancing my face off to ‘80s music and then eating my weight in pancakes at IHOP.

Still absurdly fun. Just a little more in control.

Written by lindsay in: Uncategorized |

Spear Guns and Apple Sauce

Who knew that the TSA had a blog?! And that this blog details the delightful smorgasbord of crap that TSA agents confiscate from airline travelers?! A spear gun here. 240 live fish there. Countless live and inert grenades. Consider my mind grapes blown.

Because I still believe in humanity, I am choosing to assume that no one is that stupid. Instead, I will assume that people do this for the same reason they show up in the ER with odd objects – bottles of shampoo, beepers, books (all true) — inside them: because they wanted to see if they could. (Ok, that may be the second reason people show up in the ER with objects inside them, but the first reason is outside of the scope of this blog.)

I understand that “well, maybe I’ll pull it off” feeling (important note: this refers only to the TSA portion of the above, NOT to the shampoo bottle/beeper/book portion). My weapon of choice? Mott’s apple sauce.

A few years ago, when I was a poor PR rep instead of a poor grad student, I did not want to pay an arm and a leg for food at the airport. So, before leaving my apartment, I put a container of apple sauce in my purse even though it was more than 3 oz and I was pretty sure it was considered a liquid/gel. Yeah, I’m a wild woman. I also apparently have the snack preferences of a risk-averse toddler.

While waiting in line to get my boarding pass, I began chatting with a cute guy. Mid-conversation, I imagined what he would say at our wedding: “When I saw her baggy sweatpants, baby blue neck pillow stained from years of soda and coffee spills during turbulence and her armload of celebrity gossip magazines, I knew I wanted to marry her.” Yes, this was the kind of unshakable love upon which so many Nicholas Sparks novels are based. After we both had our documents in hand, we proceeded to security together.

And then things got…embarrassing. A TSA agent pulled the apple sauce out of my purse and informed me that it could not be carried on. I gave him my best “I’m small and hungry” face to no avail. I argued with him about the classification of the product as a gel. He wouldn’t budge. Meanwhile, my gentleman friend had slowly edged away, moved to a different security line and was already removing his shoes. I can’t imagine why – what man wouldn’t want to hang with a 26-year-old woman making a scene about a container of apple sauce?

The TSA agent gave me the option of throwing out the apple sauce or eating it before I proceeded through the checkpoint. I locked eyes with my man, now through the X-ray machine. I had a tough decision to make. Potential future bliss and lifelong companionship? Or No Sugar Added, Vitamin C-rich apple deliciousness?

As I sat there snacking, I sarcastically thanked the TSA agent for costing me a chance with my soul mate. And in a moment I’ll never forget, the TSA agent looked me right in the eye and said “Your soul mate would have stood by you while you ate your apple sauce.” Wise words, Mr. TSA agent inde viagra. Wise words.

Tell me your airport security war stories!

Written by lindsay in: Uncategorized |

A Self-Meccanization…(And a Cheap Ploy for Facebook Likes)

A few weeks ago, I joked with a friend who commented on (i.e. mocked) my increased activity on Facebook that my self image was in part predicated upon how many people like my Facebook statuses. I was entirely kidding. At the time.

Today, I entered an entirely new realm of lame. And for the girl who chortled and asked “Are you going to test me for Coke?” when Pepsi told her there would be a drug test before starting her internship, that is saying a lot.

I posted a status on Facebook…and nobody liked it. Nobody commented. There was no welcoming little red “1” that popped up on the earth icon to indicate that anyone who subscribes to my feed thought I was funny or cool.

Yup…I just equated my Facebook status message being funny or cool to me being funny or cool. And what’s worse — I cared. I actually found myself re-reading my status and wondering what I should have said differently to make people like it. If ever there were someone to be Meccanized, it is me. Right now. RIGHT NOW.

It’s bad enough that I get so irate about my lack of Foursquare mayorships. With all I’ve managed to accomplish (I taught myself to juggle, dammit! I hunted down Mick Jagger!), have I really been sucked into the social media vortex so deeply that any part of my self-confidence can be impacted by Facebook “likes?”

I can’t be alone here (TELL ME I’M NOT ALONE HERE), and I am sure there is plenty of new psychology research that indicates this is an ever-growing phenomenon. I hope to avoid being a part of it, though. I think Facebook is too useful a tool to give up (i.e. I am hopelessly addicted to it), but I do not want to be the sort of user who lives and dies by others’ likes. I am writing this post so that every time I log-in and face a dearth of little red 1’s, I can remember how silly I felt yearning for virtual validation.

Of course, if I post this to Facebook, please, please like the link!!!!!

Written by lindsay in: Uncategorized |

My Charlottesville Bucket List/2012 Resolutions

If the last two years have taught me anything, it’s that I will only remember to do things if I write them down. I made the mistake of telling this to someone on a date and three days later noticed “Rip P’s clothes off” sandwiched on my to-do list between “buy toilet paper” and “pick up the cleaning.”

So, to hold myself accountable, this year I am using this blog to highlight both my Charlottesville bucket list and my 2012 resolutions. I welcome help completing any and all of these things. For added incentive, at least 50% of these will likely be absurd enough to yield other blog posts, so if you’ve ever wanted to claim your place in Meccanized history, now is your chance!

Charlottesville Bucket List (this list is fluid, so additions are welcome):

– Eat a Gus Burger at The White Spot (extra points if it is consumed after midnight)

– Stargaze at the UVA Observatory

– Organize a fake birthday party at Bounce U

– Win a trivia night at McGrady’s (or Mellow Mushroom or Escafe. Really, I don’t care where we win, I just want to win.)

– Be taken to dinner at The Boar’s Head or Ivy Inn. For you SF folks, this is the Charlottesville equivalent of the Gary Danko item on my SF Bucket List.

– Even classier than the previous item, get dressed to the nines for dinner at IHOP

– Climb Old Rag again, this time on a clear day

– Win a game of pool at Rapture and shuffleboard at Boylan

– Bowl above a 117. Hopefully this will happen during my usual Tuesday night league, but if I have to go alone every weekend to the bowling alley until I roll at least a 118, so be it.

– Attend (and dance my face off at) every Love Canon show between now and June

– Have a one-night staycation at one of the local B&Bs

2012 Resolutions:

Personal Growth:

– Be kinder to myself

– Worry less about other people’s perceptions of me. Along with this, be more confident in my own thoughts and actions.

– Be more positive. I tend to assume the worst about most situations to avoid being caught off guard if things go south. At best it’s draining and at worst it ruins a lot of potential fun.

– Every day, write down one thing about my life that I am grateful for. Each week, read through the list.

– Do not let the actions of others define my happiness.

Interpersonal Relationships:

– Be more honest with others about my feelings. Be brave enough to be vulnerable.

– Don’t expend a single iota of mental or physical energy on people who make me feel less than great. Devote more mental and physical energy to those who are just incredible and who I know I am lucky to have around.

– Stop being a flake; barring a family emergency or being trapped under something heavy, if I commit to something, I will go.

– Return phone calls within 24 hours

– When in the company of other people, do not check my iPhone for new e-mail/texts/FB notifications/etc. more than once

Looking Towards NYC:

– Purge my apartment and donate at least 5 big bags of clothes/books/etc. to charity.

– Leave Charlottesville feeling as if I have done everything I wanted to do with the people I wanted to do it with.

– Find a great apartment in NYC that a) makes me feel comfortable and at home in a place that has always made me feel claustrophobic and overwhelmed b) doesn’t require me to prostitute myself to pay rent

– Be a NYC tourist without shame

– Go to shows – Broadway, stand-up, tiny theaters, etc. – at least once a month.

– Join a city sports league (a la kickball in SF)

– Don’t bankrupt Pepsi

General To Do’s:

– Learn to drive a manual transmission

– Learn to shoot a pistol

– Make a Turducken

– Publish a piece of original fiction

– Read the news every day

Written by lindsay in: Uncategorized |

Better Left Alone

I was at a bowling alley a few weeks ago and heard a techno remix of “If I Die Young.” At that point, I was distracted by several things – the cheap beer in my hand, coming up with clever trash-talk to rattle our opponents – so I didn’t give the song much thought and continued helping my team lose the playoffs.

The other day, though, the same remix came on during a boot camp exercise class. As I had far fewer distractions this time – pretty much just staying conscious and not tripping and injuring myself — I was able to focus a bit more on the song.

I actually like “If I Die Young” (in the same way I like most saccharine pop ballads), but am I the only one who thinks it isn’t…well-suited…for a bump-and-grind beat? This is a song that is sort of about making the most of the time you have but mostly is about a little girl dying…and things she missed out on in life and how she wants to be laid to rest…and her grieving mother. These aren’t the things I want to think about when I’m seeking a mental distraction from the physical pain of getting my ass handed to me by a screaming boot camp instructor. Or when I’m really excited to dance and hit the floor, ready to get groped and sweated on by strangers (mmm…yummy).

I appreciate the need to find new usage occasions for songs to keep them fresh, popular and generating money. I also appreciate a good beat. But some songs should just be left alone. I’m not irate enough to Meccanize anything – I’m only at my “huh…that’s an interesting choice” level, not my “…REALLY?!” level –  but if I am ever bowling, exercising or rocking out to a techno remix of “Tears in Heaven” or “Cat’s in the Cradle,” I am going to be pushed over the edge.

Written by lindsay in: Uncategorized |

The Hidden Dangers of Eye Contact

A former boyfriend once suggested that I received unwanted attention on SF public transportation because I made eye contact with the crazies. What I learned recently was that, apparently, eye contact represents the universal sign for “please, touch me inappropriately and with purpose” to ALL forms of life, not just mentally unstable bus riders.

It all started when I was sitting at my gate at Dulles playing “spot the Air Marshall.” As my peepers jumped from person to person, I accidentally locked eyes with a 4-year-old girl sitting across from me. In true Fatal Attraction fashion, it meant nothing to me but I guess she felt differently.

When we boarded, I discovered that this girl and her parents were seated across the aisle and one row up from me. As we readied for takeoff, the girl climbed out of her seat, tottered over to me and handed me her stuffed dog. I smiled and said “Thank you, but I think he’ll be happier staying with you.” The girl couldn’t take a hint. She continued to stare up at me with her big, wet, Steve Buscemi eyes and thrust the dog at me until I finally took it. As she turned around, I tapped the father on the shoulder, handed the dog back and continued reading about the safety features of our Airbus A320. Five minutes later, the same thing happened, only this time, the father turned around, took a picture and said “This is amazing, she’s never shared anything with anybody before!” So glad I could play such a crucial role in this kid’s development. When I tried to hand the dog back, the father asked “Would you mind just holding on to it for awhile? We’re so happy that she’s learned to share that we don’t want to stifle her now by having you give the dog back.” Um…Yeah, ok, sure. I guess I don’t want to…stifle…her either. And so I took off for California like all normal 28-year-old women — holding a stuffed dog against one knee.

  • At hour 1.5, I fell asleep. At hour 1.75, I woke up to find her standing in the aisle, face inches from mine, staring at me…expressionless…like an extra from Children of the Corn.
  • At hour 2.5, I exited the bathroom and tripped over her…standing in the aisle outside of the stall…waiting for me. She then followed me back to my seat and stood in the aisle staring at me…still expressionless.
  • At hour 3, she walked over to my seat, reached her stubby arms into my row and fiddled with my magazines in the seat-back pocket in front of me until I put them in my bag. At this point, I wondered why her parents weren’t paying attention to her but was too distracted by “Elf” to say anything.

And then, at hour 4,we hit turbulence. Like a normal person, I fastened my seatbelt, started sweating and prayed silently that we stayed afloat. Not like a normal person, this kid climbed out of her seat, OVER her father’s seat, walked back to my seat and started to climb in my lap. That was enough for me. I gently pushed her away, tapped her father on the shoulder and said: “Hi, I don’t mean to be rude, but would you please keep a closer eye on your daughter? She’s adorable, but she’s been a little bothersome and I really don’t want her to get hurt climbing on me during turbulence.”

And that is apparently how to become the most hated person on a JetBlue flight from Dulles to Long Beach. The little girl finally decided to get an expression and started bawling. The mother held her and said “What did you do to her?” The father glared at me and rudely exclaimed “Jeez, lighten up, she’s just a kid.” The woman directly across the aisle from me whispered to her husband “well, she could have just held the kid for a few minutes.” Really? Really?!

When did it become acceptable behavior to let your kid creepily stare at and crawl all over fellow passengers? Shouldn’t that go the way of smoking or carrying on liquids over 3 oz? To parents who think their kids can do no wrong and who don’t bother to keep an eye on them, I say: Meccanized.

Written by lindsay in: Uncategorized |

A De-Meccanization

Usually on this blog I rant and rave about things that bug me. For example, I could tell you about the exchange I had with a nurse taking my vitals at a doctor’s office recently:

Nurse: “How tall are you?”

Me: “4’11″…and a half.”

Nurse: [tilting her head to the side and giving me the kind of condescending brow furrow and half smile that says “Aww, that’s ok that capri pants fit you like regular pants.” Then, lowering her voice and in a “this will be our little secret” way…]: “Well, we’ll just say you’re 5 feet.”

If I were more adult, I would have smiled and let this slide. But I’m petty. So I looked her right in the eye and said “No, please write 4’11” and a half commander viagra pas cher. Because that’s how tall I am.” Kids, that’s how to turn a nerve-wracking doctor’s appointment into an awkward, nerve-wracking doctor’s appointment. Meccanized.

But today is not about Meccanization. Today is about honoring some truly  wonderful people.

For a number of reasons, these last few days have been stressful and vaguely unpleasant. I’ve been anxious, cranky, exhausted and whiny… generally, a real joy to be around. That’s why when I feel low, I tend to lay low. This week, “laying low” has meant a few things. Lighting candles, drinking wine and listening to the Avett Brothers. Ordering Chinese food, watching movies like “Jerry Maguire” and “Love Actually” and crying like a little bitch. Last night, laying low meant banging my head against the wall trying to finish my last paper of the quarter. I was not a happy camper, as there were many other things – basketball games, having needles driven through my eyes – that I would have rather been doing.

Then came a knock at my door. I asked who it was. No answer. I asked again. No answer. Now, this is pretty much the universal sign for “you’re about to get serial killed.”  But I did a quick statistical analysis on the likelihood that the knocker was going to hack me to pieces (which, based on my performance in Decision Analysis last year, was most likely 100% inaccurate) and ultimately decided to open the door.

Instead of a rapist or other unsavory character, I found two beautiful ladies standing before me with three different bunches of flowers, ice cream and Celebrity Taboo. There was even an attempt (and alleged rehearsals) to quote movie lines from the long list of cathartic movies I had been watching these past few days, but this failed when one of the two couldn’t stop laughing. My friends stayed just long enough to put the ice cream in the freezer, help me arrange the flowers in an aesthetically pleasing way and tell me they were thinking of me.

I love surprises. I love flowers. I love board games. I LOVE ice cream like…well…like a fat kid loves ice cream. But most of all, I love that there are people on the planet like Priyanka R. Tandon and Cassidy McKee, and I love that I am lucky enough to have them in my corner.

Ladies, let me say…without hope or agenda…but because it’s Christmas…and at Christmas, you tell the truth…to me, you are perfect. As promised, for brightening up a really bleak few days and for being two of the best friends a girl could ever ask for, consider yourselves de-Meccanized.*

*Please note that this does not make you immune to Meccanization in the future…you’ve been warned.

Written by lindsay in: Uncategorized |

Navel Gazing (Fair Warning)

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.

Written by lindsay in: Uncategorized |

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