Diving into the New Year

Humans are complex creatures.  We make resolutions at the end of December to be better people, and then the majority of adults spend the first of the year exhausted and hung over.  And yet we make the resolutions.  A major reason I love the new year is the renewed faith people have in themselves to accomplish goals that were apparently too out of reach in November or early December.  One of the only qualms I have with New Year’s resolutions is how hard people are on themselves when they break them.  Friend, you had to have suspected you were not going to be carting yourself out of bed at 5am every morning to go to the gym.  Unless there was a really good bakery beside the gym, and you could eat your croissant there and be like, “Close enough.”

I don’t like that we curb our ambitions because we might fail, or dislike this time of year because it reminds us of our rather predictable missteps and resignations. Let’s just be honest about our lack of foresight: very rarely do we know at the end of one year what will be good for us through the next 12 months.  I can’t even skillfully plan out my groceries for a week.  When I sat down and thought about it all, actually, some of my favorite memories have come from broken promises to myself.  So, in honor of 2012 and all of the times I had to actively ignore that inner voice Oprah is so fond of telling us to listen to, here is a fun time that occurred because I released myself from my resolutions.

Those of you who have been reading this for a while may vaguely recall my declaration to never cliff dive.  Mostly, my determination to avoid this form of recreation was borne of my impressive knowledge of limnology: Sometimes there are jagged rocks on the bottom of lakes.  I have never been, and, I thought, would never be, so hard-pressed for something fun to do that I would feel compelled to spontaneously throw myself from a cliff.  I have cable.  Plus, Bella Swan took an angst-ridden jump off a cliff in New Moon, and sort of succeeded in zapping any bad-assery from the act at all. 

Yet, one summer a friend and I had his jet skis out on a lake, and he pointed out a ledge in the distance. 
“We could jump if you wanted,” he said in a tone that clearly implied I could say no and he would not judge me at all.  I had one sane moment of appreciation for his neutrality before I more deeply considered his tone.  Perhaps he anticipated I would say no.  He anticipated this response, no doubt, because I am responsible, and level-headed, and enjoy possessing full mobility of all my limbs.  Clearly these suppositions were unacceptable.

“Definitely!  I’ve always wanted to cliff dive.  Let’s go!”  I then proceeded to race him to the base of the cliff.  I cannot say why I not only lied, but channeled my sister to give the peppiest response to his request possible, but I did. 

We tied the jet skis off by the shore, and swam around the base of the cliff to find a place to begin our climb.  He grabbed one of those random tree branches that sometimes stick out of cliffs (I don’t know why this is a thing, but it is), and swung himself out of the water.  After watching him go, I silently plopped my forehead against the surface of the water in grim acceptance of my fate, then laboriously followed.

This is the way it will all end, I thought to myself somberly as we carefully climbed the slippery, moss covered rocks.  I am going to literally jump off of a cliff to impress a boy.  Somewhere on the planet, Betty Friedan sighed.

When we reached the top, we both peered anxiously over the edge.  I’m going to be upfront with you and say the cliff was only about 50 feet over the water.  It doesn’t sound like a lot, but I don’t even like falling from my 5’7” height, so I’m just assuming 50 feet wouldn’t be fun either. 

“You can go first,” he said gallantly.  I raised my eyebrows.  “Unless you’d rather I go.”  The implicit unless you’re afraid hung in the air between us, and I took a deliberate step forward.

“I guess I should have asked before,” my friend’s conscience seemed to catch up with him.  “You’re not afraid of heights?”

I rolled my eyes.  “No real issue with heights, just a wee bit hesitant to jump from a cliff.  But I think that’s just an indicator of prominent mental health.” 

He remained silent as I looked over the edge again, trying to pretend I had the mental capacity necessary to calculate a safe trajectory for my jump. 

“If I die,” I said, “I’m going to kill you.  And then sue you.”

“Want me to count for you?”

“In my experience, math will only exacerbate the problem,” and those could have been my last words, because after ensuring the world would remember my ability to make bad jokes in uncomfortable situations, I took a breath and ungracefully leapt from the cliff, stifling what I’m sure would have been a confidence-inspiring squeak. 

I can compare the sensation to a rollercoaster with no safety restraints, or a slide without the friction, but none of those phrases really do cliff-diving justice, especially when the entire time I was falling I was berating myself for having the ability of a nine-year-old to forgo a dare that no one ever even uttered.  And yet I was also feeling sheepishly triumphant, because I had done what we all want to do as often as possible: overcome fear – an admittedly reasonable fear, but a fear nonetheless.  I’m definitely not addicted to that form of recreation (if you want to know what kept me from making cliff-diving a necessary activity of my summers, I’d have to quote the voice of our generation and say, “It’s the climb”), but I like to be able to faux-nonchalantly tell people I enjoy cliff-diving.

The experience is a good reminder for me that I don’t always know what I’m doing.  Especially when I’m making resolutions, at any point in the year.  So, friends, if you slack a little this year, if you skip the gym for a day (or a week), or you forgo an hour of introspective journaling for an hour of trashy television, more power to you.  You’re right where you’re supposed to be for 2013.  Good things happen to us when we’re being human.  Happy New Year, and happy reading. 

You'll Have to Excuse Me, I'm New Here...

Hello, reader(s)!  If you’ve been here before, then you’ll notice some changes.  For example…I updated.  But, in more superficial, but no less exciting, news, I changed the background and my profile picture, which should indicate the following things:

-The party really doesn’t start until I walk in.

-I finally learned how to work the template on blogspot.

-I am a sophisticated intellectual now.  Please note the glasses and scarf.

-I learned how to tie a scarf. 

That’s right, newness is everywhere.  In fact, a mere month ago, I moved to Pittsburgh.  Now, I’m from a small, rural town. Like, there’s literally a place you drive past where you have to exercise caution to avoid the grazing goats.  We don’t have a sign up yet; we’re waiting for the appropriate graphics to become available.  The point is, Pittsburgh has been a bit of an adjustment.  But, as I assure my potential employers in every job interview, I’m a quick learner. 

A few weeks ago, I had decided my next entry would cover everything I have learned so far in the city.  Lesson One: Fairly quickly I discovered the secret to crossing the street is not actually to wait for the “walk” sign, but to find people in business suits with briefcases and jet across with them.  They don’t wait for cars, but cars wait for them because they have briefcases.  They look important.  They look like they can afford good lawyers.  In comparison to them, you probably look like you would not be able to afford the change to call an ambulance to scrape you off a bumper, so just follow the gainfully employed to the sidewalk.  And the other thing I learned so far is…

I lied in all of those job interviews. 

There are still a lot of mysteries staring judgmentally at me, waiting to be solved.  I tried to wait to write this until I learned how to do more than cross the street, but, let’s face it,  it’s 2012 and Glee was renewed for a fourth season: all signs point to an imminent apocalypse.  I might as well update.  So, here are some things I really want to know, but haven’t figured out about the city yet.

Where is everyone driving to that’s making them so angry?

Seriously, there are some incensed drivers here.  Like, the light will be red, and people are honking their horns for you to get moving.  Sir, the laws of the road demand that I stay stagnant.  And, really, it doesn’t even seem to matter if traffic is running smoothly, people just sporadically honk their horns or yell profanities out their window, as though negative energy is the new natural fuel.  So I want to know where these angry people are going, that way I can go somewhere else.

Why would people think I’d give them money to buy tickets to a Steelers’ game?

I passed about five people today with “Need Steelers’ Tickets” signs and empty cups for money, and…OK, I appreciate their honesty, I guess.  I mean, if they would be looking desolate and have a “Need Money for Food” sign, I’d toss some change in there, so props to them for not going for the obvious deception.  But, really…do people, like, give money to fund someone’s football addiction?  I’m not even offended, just baffled.

If I live here long enough, will I develop a sort of Spidey Sense?

My roommate and I walked to the neighborhood next to ours the other day to get some pizza, and we passed two people yelling racial slurs at each other from opposite ends of the street (one man apparently thought that his shirtlessness would add some weight to his argument, so he peeled off his t-shirt), and two arrests.  Now, had my roommate given the slightest hint that he was uncomfortable and we should turn back, I would have jumped all over that opportunity like Lindsay Lohan should jump on any guest-staring opportunities offered to her, but I did not want to be the person to suggest we go back.  I know, pride will be such a nice companion for me in the police station identifying Mugger #2.  But I don’t even get it, because that neighborhood is a hop, skip, and a jump away from ours, so how do you even know where a safe piece of pizza can be had?  And will I ever be able to tell just by, like, tilting my head in the wind and sniffing out danger?  Because I’d like the opportunity to pull a street-wise, “It’s quiet.  Too quiet.  Let’s go to that well-lit Primanti’s instead.”

Do people expect me to say “Stillers” instead of “Steelers”?

Because I won’t.

Am I convincingly faking a sense of direction?

Pittsburgh geography escapes me, yet I still insist on asking people where they live like I’ll actually have any conception of what they’re telling me.  But I do the fake smile of enlightenment, and, “Oh.  I see” so they don’t feel the need to offer more directions I won’t understand.  Though, I suspect we both know what’s going on.

Now, I’m not despairing or anything.  I know if there are 1,000 things I have yet to learn, and I learn a new thing every three days, math will happen and one day I’ll know more than I do now.  For now, though, I am content to simply glance out of my window at all of the cars on the street below and be thankful I’m not driving.

Happy reading.

(Also, my sister, who has been a good sport about having several cameos in my blog, started her own blog for a social work class.  Check it out--it's funny and informative.)

Unduly Noted

Years ago, my boyfriend had me listen to a song he liked.  When he asked what I thought of it, I, not yet schooled in the ways of cultivating a romantic relationship, replied honestly, saying I thought the music was good (this conciliatory statement is as laughable from my 16-year-old self as it would be from my 22-year-old self, since I know only slightly more about music than I do about Olympic gymnastics), but the lyrics didn’t really do much for me.  My boyfriend, who did actually know a good deal about music, replied mournfully, “Josie, there was a time when people appreciated music for more than its lyrics.” 

Indeed.  Well, though it may be an indicator of my musical ignorance, I will confess to still enjoying music primarily for the lyrics.  Now and then, I will go through sprees of listening to classical music that’s just instrumental, but that’s mainly so if someone walks into the room I can “hastily” shut off my music, pull the, “Oh, I didn’t see you there” routine, and seem more sophisticated that I actually am.  Though I know some people derive pleasure from music as a form of technical, complex art, I look at music as a form of catharsis, and I have always found the most emotional release through words.  Also, when people start to talk about crescendos and adagios, my eyes glaze over, and no matter how much I try to bluff my way through the conversation, I always make it extremely apparent that singing “Row Row Row Your Boat” in rounds is about as technically advanced as I get.

But even though I love me some good lyrics, I’m as guilty as the next person of singing a song for weeks, maybe even months, before I actually listen to the lyrics.  I’m not talking about singing the wrong words to a song (because, really, people do that for years, or until some sort of public or semi-public embarrassment has occurred).  I’m talking about belatedly garnering the meaning to a song that you’ve been gracing the world with your rendition of for many countdowns. 

Here are some songs that have been popular on the radio at one point or another, and should eventually give you pause:

T-Shirt by Shontelle

A song about a woman so heartbroken she has one of the most devastating First World Problems: a rejection of Jimmy Choo’s?  Girl, the young and in love of America feel your pain and hope you can find the strength to muddle through.  But, really, Shontelle should lose you before the chorus.  My “T-Shirt” revelation happened when I was in the car with my friends, and we were all singing along to the song.  We got to the part, “Gonna be late, gonna be late, but, all my girls gonna have to wait…”  and awareness struck.  I looked back at my friends and said, “If any of you were ever late for something, and I showed up to your house and found you lying on your bed in your ex-boyfriend’s t-shirt, I really think I’d kick your ass.”  Because, seriously, if you don’t feel like hanging out, you call and cancel your plans.  You don’t lie around scantily clad while your friends wait for you.  That’s just bad manners. 

Speak Now by Taylor Swift

Taylor Swift is an artist I would love to hate, because she’s all about teenage love and clichéd rhymes, and I really want to be above all that.  But I’m just not.  Every time she comes out with a new song that I like, I always shake my fist at the radio and give a grudging, “Damn you, Taylor Swift,” resigning myself to some repeated plays on my iPod.  That’s not to say that Taylor doesn’t occasionally bring her own record to a screeching halt (Like in “Love Story” when Romeo solves all of his and Juliet’s problems by simply talking to her dad?  Oh, Shakespeare, if your Romeo had only had Swift’s foresight...).  In “Speak Now,” Swift sets up a story where she has sneaked into an old lover’s wedding, planning to speak up at the more or less rhetorical “Speak now or forever hold your peace” part of the ceremony.  But, before she gets there, she tells the would-be groom, “And I am hiding in the curtains.  It seems that I was uninvited by your lovely bride-to-be.”  Hell yeah you were, Taylor.  You’re the psychopath hiding in the goddamn curtains of her wedding, trying to steal her fiancé.  Fucking right she uninvited you.  There’s really no point in trying to make the bride sound unreasonable, because it seems like you really had that one coming.

Defying Gravity, Wicked

I love this song, and I love this musical (I also love this book, even though I cannot find a single person who will gush over Maguire’s genius with me).  The lyrics to this song are fun and empowering, like I imagine they were intended to be.  So how did the song make this list?  Well, I really only ever sing it when I’m doing something mundane, like going for groceries or coming home from school.  “It’s time to tryyyyy defyyyyyying graaavity…” (Yeah, I bought that milk!  I went to the bank!  Look out world; I’m defyyyying graaavity.)  You can never be doing anything cool enough to live up to this song.  Elphaba will always be leaving her best friend to prepare to take on the wizard, and you will always be driving in your car, trying to remember if you bought the right brand of butter.

Call Me Maybe by Carly Raye Jepsen

I know this song gets a lot of criticism and has been parodied to death, even though, just admit it, you’ve spent at least two weeks humming it, whether you like it or not.  From what I, via my limited expertise, can discern, the music itself is catchy.  And, also, I think we can all relate to the general narrative of being attracted to someone, kind of gritting your teeth and making the first move, and waiting in what could be terminal anxiety to see how the other person reacts.  So, Carly Raye, we get it.  We really do.  But what we don’t get is why “This is crazy.”  Because you just met the guy?  Friend, it’s what you do.  It’s the unfortunate law of socialization that in order for an initial meeting to become prolonged, someone has to offer up a form of further contact.  And we can only hope, as supportive listeners, that the “All the other boys try to chase me” line was thought, but not spoken aloud to the potential suitor.  Otherwise, maybe we’d suggest you not spend too long waiting by the phone.

According to You by Orianthi

This song reminds me of when people come to you for advice, but they already know exactly what they’re going to do.  So you have to faux-patiently listen to them go on and on about their “dilemma” for an hour before you can repeat to them essentially what they already said to you.  In this song, Orianthi has a very difficult decision to make.  Or something.  Her boyfriend says she’s “stupid, [she’s] useless, [she] can’t do anything right,” and a host of other demeaning comments.  First of all, why are you still with this jerk?  Run, don’t walk, your talented ass away from Demeaning Dave.  But, luckily, another person in Orianthi’s life thinks she’s wonderful, incredible, etc., etc.  So, you know, she’s hearing good things from someone.  However, after comparing the two men, Orianthi sings to Boyfriend #1 a.k.a Most Likely To Be The Last Thing Orianthi Would Save In A Fire, “It’s too bad that you’re making me decide.”  Everything else about this song bothers me, but the idea of there even being a decision to make, or the idea that she had to have someone else to go to before she left BF #1, just really irks me.  Yeah, it is really too bad you have to decide.  But tough choices like that are why we have coins to flip.  And radio dials to turn.

Never Gonna Leave this Bed by Maroon 5

Regret and redemption are two popular themes for songs, and if you can juxtapose your woeful sentiments with relatively upbeat music, you’ll probably have a hit on your hands.  “Never Gonna Leave this Bed” is no exception to the rules I just made up.  I think, when we fantasize about our love lives, we may all tend to think we’d appreciate a significant other who would go to impossible lengths for us, remind us of our beauty and intrinsic worth every day, and, hell, toss a thoughtful gift our way every now and then.  But, in reality, although we really do want our romantic counterparts to treat us well, when people go over the top, that shit gets old fast.  When Adam Levine croons, “Wake you up in the middle of the night to say, I will never walk away again…” I have to wonder, is he waking this poor girl up every night?  That seems unnecessary.  Even periodically, it seems annoying.  Like she’s in a deep sleep and he shakes her shoulder until she blearily opens her eyes, and then he assures her, “Don’t worry.  I’ll never leave you again.”  Dude.  At this point, that’s less of a promise and more of an irritating threat.  And reassure her in the daytime, when she cares.  Though, I have to say, this song almost didn’t make the list, because if anyone is going to wake me up in the middle of the night and be forgiven, it would probably be Adam Levine.

I’m by no means saying that when a song gets tangled up in its own logic we can no longer appreciate it.  In fact, I think the same thing could work for music that often works for literature: When something you love is not sensible in a literal manner, and you cannot explain away the inconsistencies, you just become distracted by whatever is nearest to you and mumble, “Yeah, it’s like a metaphor, or whatever…” and then exit the conversation quickly.  (Maybe don’t try that with “Call Me Maybe” unless you’re feeling really ambitious).  This isn’t a post to drain your enjoyment out of music.  In fact, I personally gain more enjoyment from recognizing these lyrical mishaps than I do from ignoring them.  But if you can’t do that, then, by all means, sing loudly, sing happily, and let no one tell you how to appreciate your music.

As always, happy reading.  

And the Meek Will Inherit a List of Unfortunate Occurrences

Just like everyone else, I have a few core beliefs. 

1)     One of the most important skills you will ever learn is how to sincerely and effectively apologize

2)    If someone tells you that he/she is not even a little afraid of the dark, that person is lying to you

3)    You’ll make and keep more friends by listening than you will by talking

4)    Even if we don’t know our over-arcing purpose in life, on a daily basis our purpose is to make life a little easier for one another

5)    You will always be happier not knowing how many calories are in a mocha, a McDonald’s hamburger, or movie theater popcorn.  Just don’t ask.  Ever.  (Incidentally, I also believe people who perform studies to find out such information are secretly very unhappy people who want to spread their misery)

6)     Finally and unoriginally, everything happens for a reason.  Well, maybe not so much that everything happens for a reason, but that things tend to work out eventually.

In case you were curious (or worried), this list is not exhaustive.

Now, the problem with believing that things happen for a reason is that, logically, there are times in my life when I need to decipher exactly what that reason is.  When life does not go according to plan in ways that are upsetting but not especially tragic, the easy answer to “why did this happen” is “to teach [said person in shitty situation] humility.” 

Obviously this answer is annoying and unsatisfying; let’s not pretend otherwise. 

Yes, life can be disappointing, and if you had somehow not known this illuminating information before, I am glad I could spend several paragraphs breaking the news to you.  Let us not forget, however, the many things in life that teach us humility.

Singing the wrong words to a song.

This mistake can break your narcissistic rhythm even when you’re alone, but if you’re in a group of people, there’s really no hope for your pride by the end of the song.  Especially disheartening is the mis-sung lyric when you’re absolutely bellowing the song, because you feel like you’re singing exceptionally well that day, and those around you are truly blessed to hear your voice.  The secret belief that somewhere a producer at a record company is lurking and waiting to sign you may also be quietly thriving somewhere.  Even the most unconfident singers have days like that, when you sound just like Mumford and Sons, and you’re being especially soulful, because these lyrics are deep, these lyrics resonate with you, these lyrics…fuck.  Those weren’t the right lyrics.  Depending on who you’re with, people will either glance quickly at you and then pretend not to notice, or mock your mercilessly.  Either way, you’ve fallen pretty quickly from that musical pedestal on which you happily placed yourself.  And just like that, your singing career is over, and if you’re in a car, moving or not, you’re seriously considering opening the door and hoping for the best.

Microsoft Word and/or Google has no idea what the hell you’re talking about.

It’s one thing to misspell polysyllabic words that you find in a book for and by Smart People.  We can forgive that of ourselves.  It’s even acceptable to look at words like “who” and “the” and silently contemplate how strange they appear. Maybe we’re just feeling linguistically existential.  More likely, we had too much or too little caffeine. But sometimes you can type a word into a document, and Microsoft puts that red squiggly line under it, and, all right, texting has completely ruined our lexicons, so we accept we could be rusty on the spelling of this word.  However, when you patiently right-click, Microsoft has “no spelling suggestions.”  Outraged, you google your “word,” and Google is all, “The fuck?” or whatever the Google equivalent of “no spelling suggestions” is.  What word were you thinking of?  Have you used this pretend word in conversations with your peers?  In handwritten assignments, have you tried to make “narratively” a thing?  Obviously, the sting of this can be somewhat lessened if, outraged, you exclaim, “Well, it should be a word,” and get a baffled bystander to agree with you.

Failing at small-talk.

Even people who are generally good at small talk are not always good at small-talk.  And, really, inane chatter is a game for two—the person with whom you’re conversing has to be somewhat adept at talking about nothing, too.  Yet, despite the odds staked against us, when we walk away from a server, a cashier, or, worse, an acquaintance we really should be able to talk to, and have failed to keep them engaged in the dry details of our life, we feel like we’ve failed at this basic level of human interaction.  We didn’t have to get this person to propose at the end of the conversation, we just had to keep him or her interested enough to not look extremely relieved when sufficient time has passed that both of us could walk away.  Sometimes small-talk is difficult because we can’t really decipher the jargon.  Does “we should get together for lunch sometime” actually mean we should get together for lunch sometime, or does it mean, “You can nod and make up an excuse to leave now.  We’ll both just pretend to forget that neither of us has the other’s number.  Retreat!”  

Realizing you’ve been using the same word/phrase in a conversation incessantly.

When suddenly you catch yourself saying “like” in a conversation, completely needlessly, and that word seems damnably familiar, the topic of your exchange suddenly seems to disappear and all you can think about is not repeating that word again.  You’re not a Valley Girl.  Unless you’re crafting some explosive simile, you will not use the word “like” again.  And suddenly that’s all you’re saying.  Or maybe it’s another word that’s slightly more sophisticated.  You instantly develop a fear that the person you’re talking to will think you have one of those Word a Day calendars, and are otherwise verbally bereft. 

Not hearing what someone is saying…over and over again

We all have mastered the pleasantly neutral expression and half-nod half-headshake that symbolizes, “I have no idea what you just said, but I’m tired of saying ‘what,’ and really hope you’re not giving me money or bestowing super powers upon me and I’m missing it.”  It’s a 50/50 shot whether or not this person will call you on your fake-out (because it’s usually pretty obvious) or just pick up the conversation more audibly, leaving you lost and with a permanently vapid look on your face.

Don’t forget, for all of the times we walk straight into walls or realize we’ve been wearing a shirt inside-out all day, there are also times we pull off incredible feats that surprise even ourselves.

Or, you know, simply avoid walking into walls, and dress ourselves successfully. 

Either way, try to keep in mind that if you’re unlucky enough to have an audience to your embarrassing moments, everyone has been through what you’ve been through.  Even if no one around you is compassionate and understanding, most people are at least thankful for your presence, because you’ve provided a distraction from the last embarrassing thing someone did. 

Happy reading, all.  Stay humble.  

Those People

There are moments, and I believe “epiphany” would be too strong of a word to describe these moments, when you truly understand an aspect of someone for the first time.  I’m not talking about a really dramatic moment of comprehension, more of a mundane revelation—a comment or action that makes you mentally say to your friend, “Oh.  You’re one of those people.” 

Like, maybe you’re in a library, and you see your friend walk through the door, so you wave sociably at her, and she grins, happy to see you, and walks over to you and your books.

Then begins talking.  Loudly.  (Or at least loudly for a library, where the “no talking” rule is so well-known that every caricature of a librarian seems to take the form of a cross-looking woman wearing thick glasses and shushing someone.)

Your friend is one of those people.

Now, even though we don’t terminate relationships over moments like these, because, really, they’re just puzzle pieces falling into place…

OK, to be real with you, I’ve totally terminated relationships over moments like these.  Jerks talking in a library?  Someone not tipping a waiter or waitress?  People using the wrong “your/you’re?” 

Unfriended.

(I’m exaggerating a little, but, really folks, tip your servers)

However, it’s the holiday season, and the end of an old year, so I’m proposing we be more accepting, because I have to admit, there has been many a time when I have committed certain cardinal sins for which I would condemn others.

Faux-Philosophical Dialogue at Inappropriate Venues

The cliché here would be college students at a bar, throwing around big words and metaphysical arguments, trying to impress each other and all of those within hearing distance.  People find this behavior irritating because 1) a person does not generally go to a bar to listen to an egotistical remix of Ethics 101.  And 2) These people are usually incorrect in ways that would make you look like a douchebag for contesting, so you have to sit there and let these people think they are intellectually superior to all. 

I don’t even know why I continue to despise this behavior so much, because I am a repeat offender of over-sharing Things No One Cares About.  Recently, I was out drinking with my friends, and, for the first hour we were out, right when I was about to finish my drink, I would find it refilled.  I thrilled everyone at the table by announcing, “There was this guy in Greek mythology, Sisyphus, who is supposed to be cursed to roll this stone up a hill for eternity, and every time he gets to the top, the stone rolls back down and he has to start again.  That’s sort of what I feel like, because my drink keeps filling up right before I finish it.  I am the Sisyphus of beer.”  Yes, the story tells just as well in print as it did in person.  Even though I was trying to impress no one (the metaphor just seemed really apt, and sharing it seemed very important), I was immediately struck by what an asshole I sounded like.  I was not even inebriated enough to, as what could be our generation’s anthem suggests we do in times of trouble, blame it on the alcohol. 

People Who Burst into Song, Unprompted

I do feel that Glee and general narcissism are largely to blame for this phenomenon.  I was in the cafeteria a couple weeks ago, waiting in line and trying to have a conversation with my sister, when this girl behind me started singing an off-key rendition of “Silent Night.” 

I glanced at Jess, “Well, it was,” I muttered.

It is a testament to how irritating this girl’s performance was that Jess did not tell me to be quiet. 

I don’t know what about the prospective meal of Salisbury steak and corn dogs prompted this girl to truly bellow out this particular Christmas carol, but, by God, I hope she did some sort of vocal warm-ups before dinner, because she was going for a golden ticket to Hollywood at the end of her performance.  The weirdest aspect of this was possibly that her friends (or the people I assume were her friends—though I would want my friends to physically restrain me if they heard me venture the beginning bars of any song in public) simply ignored her, as though this was a completely normal occurrence. 

But….OK, have you ever heard the song “Lipgloss” by Lil Mama, because, God help me, I have.  When my friend first told me about this song, I accused her of making it up.  When she indignantly showed me the music video, I told her just because she could rally up some people and produce a low-budget music video to a song about a cheap cosmetic product did not make her song legitimate.  Eventually I came around, though, and now whenever someone puts lipgloss on or even says the word lipgloss, I automatically “sing,” “My lipgloss be cool, my lipgloss be poppin’.”  It is as mortifying as you’d think to have this response to lipgloss, especially since I feel the song is, unsurprisingly, not extraordinarily memorable, so people generally think I’m just writing my own rap music.

People Who Think Their Thoughts and Experiences are Just That Interesting

Modern technology has led us to post our thoughts on Facebook, Twitter, or, if you’re really ambitious, a blog.  As a writer, I enjoy many aspects of technological communication, and as a fairly lazy person, I love the ease of staying in touch with my friends and knowing what’s going on with them without actually having to get off my ass. 

I just wish some people would be more entertaining.  Otherwise, I may actually have to get up and find a remote to turn on the television.

Some people have the most lackluster statuses.  “Just woke up.  Sitting on the couch, watching tv.”  “Did some laundry.  Will probably do more laundry later.  Will eventually have done all the laundry.” I’m not faulting these people for having boring lives, because, really, I spend 90% of my time reading and writing, but do you think the world is quite that interested in the going-ons of your life when you’re as close to doing nothing as a living human being can be without actually ceasing to exist?  Just wait for something neat to happen to you or post some song lyrics.

It gets bad, though, when people are the first and only to comment on their own statuses.  A new level of hubris has been reached.  If you’re not correcting some typo, wait for someone to care enough to comment and then respond accordingly.  The worst thing about this behavior is that I always mentally imagine this person congratulating himself/herself on such pithy, inspiring posts, or imagining the hundreds, nay, thousands of people sitting on the edge of their seats for a new update.  How irritating.

And yet, a year or so ago, I went to a David Sedaris reading.  As my friend and I were standing in line to get our books signed, we found ourselves consistently bowled over by eager, stronger readers who wanted their books signed first.  Suddenly a woman all but clothes-lined the approaching swarm of would-be line jumpers, and pulled my friend and me in front of her. 
“I hate when people do that,” she said, glaring at the teenagers behind us, and then smiling warmly and introducing herself. 

“Usually I’m much more patient,” she continued, apologetically “but I just quit my job from home and now I’m working in a corporate-setting.  The atmosphere is really frying my nerves.” 

I was genuinely interested in this woman. She looked about my mother’s age, had streaks of blue and pink in her hair, a nose-ring, and just had an air of intrigue about her. 

“What did you do from home?”  I asked, picturing something very bohemian that would lead to more conversation.

“I was a phone-sex operator,” she said.

I studiously ignored my friend, who I knew would have turned a bright shade of red and been unable to respond.  If I looked at her or caught her eye, I would not be responsible for whatever reaction I had.  And, right then, I had to keep up the verbal volley.

“Oh.  How nice.  And…why the switch to corporate?”

As the conversation went on, and the woman’s boyfriend encouraged her to share particular conversations and fetishes (there was one particular story about a Nightcrawler fetish I won’t delve into), I just kept thinking, “This would make a fantastic blog entry.  I wish I could sneakily update my Facebook status and non-creepily mention a phone-sex operator in a Facebook status, because this encounter has an air of unexpected majesty to it.”  

I couldn’t help but be a little self-important, but even as these thoughts intruded, there was an undertone of, “Wow, I think I’m a very important person, don’t I?” 

And so, I invite everyone to just take a few minutes and reflect on how often we fall short of our own standards.  Don’t even lower your standards, but perhaps cut those who don’t quite reach them some slack.  Recognize the people we can’t stand, the people we judge, the people we sometimes are.

Happy holidays and happy reading.

All is Fair in Group Work and War

I am a pacifist.  I believe that violence begets violence, and that people who resort to physical altercations when angry are giving in to unhelpful barbaric urges, which will ultimately benefit no one.  No one who knows me will ever tell you that I’m a doormat, but I feel with all of my being that violence is neither an acceptable nor a permanent solution to any problem.

These convictions were how I knew I was being irrational when I considered killing my group-mates for my final project in my online class.

The class covered WWII, so, I reasoned angrily, there were bound to be some causalities.  However, the annoying “What Would Ghandi And/Or Jesus Do” mantra that stays resolutely in my mind gave me pause.  I simply could not physically harm my group-mates.  Ghandi and Jesus would both be very sad.  Anyway, this was an online class, and a few of my teammates lived off campus, so acting out on my anger would require far more research than I was really interested in undertaking. 

The assignment was to take part in a War Game, where each group took a different stance on several questions, and the professor picked which team answered the questions most efficiently.  There were war terms and whatever to make it all seem more war-like, but that’s basically the gist of it.  Our professor named generals to each team, and as The Hand of Academic Fate would have it, I was general of our rag-tag team.  This, I strongly suspected, was because I was one of three people who answered our weekly assignments in the forums using complete sentences, and whose responses were consistently text-speak free.  My natural leadership abilities most likely did not come into play, but that does not mean I did not take my position seriously.

Allow me to confess that, when it comes to group work, or, basically in any area of my life, I tend to be a little controlling.  If someone else is named “group leader” or “general” or “emperor” or whatever ruling entity the professor seems fit to dub the poor sap in charge of the group, I give this person about two minutes of my sincere loyalty.  I feel this person out to make sure he or she will not tarnish my GPA with a lack of paranoia.  Usually, this person is found wanting, and I take over.  Not officially or anything.  I don’t tell this person, “I’m sorry, you seem nice, but I really don’t trust you with this very important assignment.  I’ll be usurping your position.”  That would be rude.  I simply assert my authority by offering to aid the group leader with certain tasks, like, for example, the entire assignment.  We pretend the other person is still in charge, but we all know I have truly taken over.

Before you judge me, I wasn’t born this way.  I’ve been hurt before.  The harsh world of collaborative academia has jaded me, because, frankly, some people just do not care as much as I do, and I have gone through many a sleepless night redoing work for people who are OK with receiving a C on an assignment.  But, in the land of the Less Than Completely Sane, we say why settle for a C when it is possible to receive an A?  And, anyway, I had eventually learned that there are two options to group work: You can maintain an air of pleasantness and do all of the work yourself, or you can unleash and force equality on everyone.  I had never taken the second route before, and was anxious to see what awaited me beyond this new bend in the road.

Many of you have, I’m sure, suffered as I have.  But if you have not tried to complete a group assignment in an online class, (and here I must ask your forgiveness for the always-irritating move of placing my suffering in a higher category than another’s) you know nothing of pain.  People let you down in class?  The next day, come in and faux-pleasantly remind them that they need to get their shit together.  Someone flakes on an assignment?  You at least have the opportunity for the cathartic release that glaring can provide, or, if you’re less dignified, you can toss spitballs at them after your presentation.  In an online class, none of this can happen.  You’re stuck emailing people to remind them that they still have not completed their share of the work.  And a lot of grievance can get lost in cyberspace. 

But, oh, I was not above emails. 

As I said, I’m jaded, and as you’ve probably gathered, I’m sort of, perhaps an eensy bit too serious about school work.  However, after the first week passed and I had received no emails from my team, I sent a long, didactic group email to my fellow warriors.  The subject line was not THIS IS SPARTAAAA! but the spirit was there nonetheless.

The email was, as I already mentioned, long, so I will just recount its gist: I informed my team that, while I had finished the assignment on my own this time, it would not happen again, and, as their general (yup, I pulled the group leader card.  And also sort of acted like my position as a ranking officer was legitimate), I was not above telling the professor who was not participating.  Also, I hoped they had a nice day and were enjoying the end of the semester.

I proudly told my sister about this email, and she regarded me warily. 

“What?” I said, seeing her look.  “That was a very professional email...Except for the part when I essentially threatened to tell on them if they didn’t do what I said,” I added as an afterthought. 

My sister considered her words carefully.  She knew how I was about my war games.  “Do you think any of them will be asking to hang out after class is over?”

I rolled my eyes.  “I’m not here to make friends.”  I briefly wondered when my life turned into an episode of Survivor or America’s Next Top Model. 

“Well, then, that’s a great email to send.”

And with that I decided my sister just did not understand.  This was war, and I had to win.  (Along with my other captivating qualities, I’m sort of competitive.)  I eventually rallied the troops, although after exchanging a few vaguely and then not-so-vaguely threatening emails with a group member I never heard from (Deserting, I informed him in one of my many unanswered messages, was not an option in this army), I began to sincerely fear mutiny. 

“I really hope none of them, like, see my student profile picture and then recognize me on campus,” I told my sister one day, as I checked to make sure everyone had posted their parts of the assignment.  “Frankly, I’m not sure what they would do.”  Something told me that thanking me for their passing grade would be the least likely possibility. 

She was about to answer when I saw an email from my professor, declaring my group the winner of the war game. 

“YES!” I held my laptop over my head in victory.  “We’ve defeated the Axis Powers!!”  I leapt from my chair and attempted a victory lap around our dorm room, but, as the room was small and cluttered, what resulted was more of a victory shuffle. 

My sister rolled her eyes.  “Congratulations,” she said dryly. “Are you going to email your group and see if they want to get together and celebrate?”

“Those deadweights?  Please.  I am going to email them and say congratulations, because that, my dear, is what good generals do: We rise above turmoil, and then pretend others are just as deserving of credit as we are.”

I sent the aforementioned email, but, to my great surprise, received no replies or friend requests on Facebook from my fellow soldiers.  However, I’m sure it’s just a matter of time.

How to Make Friends and Influence People (or, you know, not)

Because I am probably not a real college student, I spent my spring break in Kalamazoo, Michigan, at a Writing Center Conference.  Florida was just too much of a warm, sunny cliche that time of year for me, and so I fled to a place that was not only still freezing, but sounded like it was a location in a Dr. Seuss book. 

Yup, somehow even with a brain in my head and feet in my shoes, I ended up in Kalamazoo, riding in the back of some woman's SUV as two huge water jugs leaked onto the seat my friend and I were hovering over.  Our boss had lost the keys to our rental car, and this woman (hell, let's call her Tracy so we don't get too pronoun crazy through this riveting tale) offered to give us a ride back to our hotel.  My boss had remained silent the entire ride, except to give some tentative directions to Tracy, who happily talked on about the history of Kalamazoo.  Now, Tracy seemed like a very nice person, and I'm not just saying that because she did not leave us stranded at the conference with only weak coffee and “I Love Writing” pins to sustain us for the night.  But she was one of those really perky people, who, hilariously enough, sounded as though she had just inhaled helium, and she remained oblivious to the strained silence in the car.  Despite the less-than-ideal circumstances, I found myself enjoying the ride in a "what the hell" sort of way.  However, the bright city lights soon faded into a foggy field, perfect for, well, hiding bodies.  

"Wow, it's pretty creepy out here," Tracy chirped over her Christian rock music.  "It looks like an episode of the Twilight  Zone.  This would be a horrible place to get lost, but a good place to murder someone; no one would ever find you!" Tracy concluded cheerfully.  My pleasantly neutral expression morphed into an alarmed glance that I shared with my coworker, trying to ask with my eyes if she was willing to do a Charlie’s Angels roll out of the car to survive.  Because if she wasn’t, hell, there was more of a chance for me to escape.  Tracy realized her slight faux pas.  "Oh my goodness, why would I say that?  You don't know me.  That's an awful thing to say..." 

At Tracy's "You don't know me" realization, I felt a rush of affectionate camaraderie, because I frequently assume familiarity where there is only ignorance and, after my inevitable outburst, fear.  

My biggest problem comes when I forget people often need eased into acceptance of my sense of humor.  I'm somewhat of an acquired taste, but I don't always remember that about myself, preferring to instead imagine people instantly appreciate my brilliance and charm.  Sometimes I will, for example, joke about my alleged brilliance and charm in front of strangers, who will not know that I’m being hyperbolic for comedic effect. 

At times, though, people not fully understanding when I’m joking has aided me greatly.  For example, the other night, I was celebrating my friend’s 21^st birthday at the Tiki Lounge. 

For anyone looking for a recommendation concerning clubs in Pittsburgh, if you’re feeling tolerant and not at all claustrophobic, the Tiki Lounge is fine in small doses.  However, it is the sort of place that, upon leaving, may inspire comments such as “I feel like I need to shower.  With bleach,” and so on.

But, I digress.

I was dancing with a guy for a few songs, when he leaned next to my ear and yelled over the music, “Why didn’t your boyfriend come along?”

I rolled my eyes at him both for the transparent line (no, my boyfriend will not materialize and kick your ass for putting your hands on me), and also for bothering to start conversation at all when the music was so loud.  We both had to shout to be heard, and the fact that the strain on my vocal cords reminded me vaguely of talking to my grandmother was causing this person’s sex appeal to rapidly diminish.

  “I’m single,” I responded.    

He backed up from me, put his hands on his hips, and looked me over slowly, grinning.  I narrowed my eyes and tried not to feel like a piece of steak he was considering purchasing.  “Why in the world are you single?” he asked, coming in closer again. 

I took a miniscule step back and answered, “Hunchback.”

He blinked at me.  “Huh?”

I gestured vaguely behind my shoulders.  “Hunchback. You know, Victor Hugo’s novel, or the admittedly more famous Disney movie…?”

He regarded me for a second.  “Oh,” he said, realization lighting his features.  “You’re joking.”

I stared at him and said nothing.  His face went from cautiously relieved to a little creeped out.  Even though he could visually ascertain I had no hunchback, and probably did not escape from the bell tower for the night, he was likely wondering how many shades of crazy I had been painted before I entered the club. 

I’m not sure if that technique would have worked as an escape maneuver (meh. Probably.), because my sister gallantly pulled me away from Prince Charming to dance with her.  Regardless of the outcome, I enjoyed myself more in the two minutes of forcing my sense of humor on a stranger than I did in the ten minutes of actually dancing with said stranger.

You see, that’s the secret to it all—no one needs to think you’re funny except for you.  It’s like when I went hiking with my friends the other week, and one of them asked what path we should take.  I responded, “Take the road less traveled!  That will make all the difference,” and then I chuckled gleefully while they all ignored me and looked at the map.  Maybe by now your friends, like mine, know that your literature classes have forever tainted you and made you incapable of real social interaction (so they make you hike through the woods away from where anyone else can hear your Frost allusions.  Yet, never fear, if you’re really cool, you’ll have a blog to tell everyone about the references anyway), but that doesn’t matter as long as you think you’re funny.  And as long as you don’t scare away too many strangers in the meantime.