Blogger, or Wordpress?

I went and changed up the settings again.  Just can't find a look that I like, I guess.  But what can I say?  I'm thinking of dumping Blogger altogether.  Using Wordpress for work is waaaaaay better.  But at least this way I can use my Google login.

Blargh.

Make it easy or make it over?  Can't decide just yet.  Either way, I've reserved emilyhaha.wordpress.com - kinda has a nice ring to it.

Twenty Ten: The Year of "No"

Wow!  Sounds like we're off to a really positive start for this new year, eh?  Actually, saying "no" is gonna make things a lot better than you might initially think.

Here's the deal.  Starting tomorrow, I will no longer have a part-time job (nothing negative, the boutique's just moving to the Meatpacking District) and there will have a lot more free time on my hands.  And when I get asked to do things I don't want to do (spend money on a not-so-great dinner, spend time with college friends I was never really that close to in the first place, read fiction), I'm going to nicely and politely - but firmly - say these two words: "No thanks."

You see, turning thirty and whatnot has made me realize the importance of being in control of my own time and activities.  I may not have a ton of money, a jet-setting lifestyle, or even a decent-sized apartment, but I do have the luxury of choosing what I want to do, when I want to do it.

Even better, I'm going to employ this spectacular new tactic at the office.  Now, certainly, when the bossman (or woman, but not in my case) asks me to do something that's already part of the ol' list o' tasks, then of course I'll do it.  But before I'm thrown into another wild and wacky, time-wasting project that a co-worker has dreamed up, I'm going to have to take a hard look at how it affects my job performance and the organization as a whole.  And in those cases - with my bosses' blessings - I'll say "No."

You see, I'm tired of spending my time doing a lot of things that are not in furtherance of the mission of the organization for which I work.  I need to feel that I'm contributing in a meaningful way just about all the dang time.  If I didn't, I'd go work at a for-profit business and just do...well, whatever it is people do at those places.  But times are tight and talent is plentiful, and if I don't strive to use all my resources in the best manner possible, then I'm being disingenuous to both myself and the people we serve.  And that's not cool.

You've been warned: get ready to hear the word "no" out of my mouth a lot more this year.  But, because I believe that this new exercise in self-monitoring will result in a more judicious use of my time, I plan on saying "yes" to a lot more things, too.  Yes to new ideas, yes to professional development, yes to spending time with great friends, and yes to working on building a better body and mind.

You see?  It's not all so negative now, is it?

Dist-sub-urbia

Every six weeks or so, I step far outside of my comfort zone, to a place that's weird and foreign. I grab a Zipcar for a couple of hours and drive to the scariest place I can think of: the suburbs.

Now, before you roll your eyes and accusing me of using hyperbole for effect (who, me? never!), let me acknowledge that I spent the first 18 years of my life smack dab in the middle of the most suburban place you can imagine. Nice brick houses with nice lawns. Two cars in every garage. Strip malls and shopping malls and "big box" stores abounding. Chain restaurants. The whole nine yards.

But...

I went to college, lived in the city, and never really turned back.

Every great now again, however, I get a deep yearning for my giant-parking-lot-having, car-with-kid-safety-seat-driving, lightwash-jeans-and-white-tennis-shoes wearing suburban brethren. Why? Well, goshdarnit, even I'll concede there are some things that are just downright convenient, like buying an entire case of moist cat food, instead of dragging back one or two at a time from the corner bodega.

And who can resist the deep-friend temptation of the occasional dalliance with a restaurant where the only way you know your table is ready is the buzzing, red light winsomeness of a plastic pager in your hand?

Most amazing to me is that you can shop with coupons at clothing stores. I'd almost forgotten about such conveniences. Oh! And layaway! Brilliant concept that's all but completely ignored in urban areas. Sorry, but I'll always have fond memories of the anticipation for items in layaway. Hold on, Barbie Dream House...we're almost there!

As fun as these minor excursions and fleeting memories are, though, I truly feel like a stranger in a strange land. I alight to chain stores in my rented-for-the-hour hybrid, Paddington handbag tucked under my arm, and proceed to look only for things marked "organic" as I troll the grocery aisles for my favorite vegetarian items. What a jerk!

It's true: I don't belong. Things feel kinda familiar for just a bit, but I quickly remember why I've long since left behind the world of subdivisions and drive-throughs. It's just not me. These aren't my people. And as I park the Zipcar back in its lot and bike home to my tiny urban dwelling, I feel a sense of peace and calm. My own little slice of perfect existence.

Hold Me Closer, Not-So-Tiny Dancer

At some point during the last month, I decided to make some changes. As many of you know, I recently turned 30 and, well, I didn't want to be the frumpy 30-something career gal who stays home with her cats all the time. (NO comments from the peanut gallery on that one!)

Instead, I wanted to be the person I'd always thought I'd be as I got older: poised, put together, purposeful. And not least of all, curious enough to learn new things whenever such opportunities presented themselves.

Which lead me to make a few changes. Contacts and a haircut topped the list right off the bat. Having not revealed my eyes outside of thick-ish lenses for nearly half a decade, applying mascara and eye liner was quite a jolt to me and, apparently, to all I came in contact with. "Wow! Your eyes are gorgeous!" I hadn't heard that in ages and I'm not too proud to say it felt nice to receive vanity-based compliments.

More long-term goals emerged:

• Create an apartment worthy of a magazine, yet not so cozy that I never want to leave. (You can view my ongoing attempts here.)
  
• Reconnect with some people form my past who I parted on not ideal terms. Somehow, as adults, the petty squabbles of the past seem irrelevant and even silly.
• Do something that takes me so far freakin' out of my comfort zone that I'm forced to change my being not only mentally, but physically.

It is this last goal that found me standing in front of a full-wall mirror, ballet-shoes on my feet (size 14, natch) - a barre under my right palm - with11 other sweaty, slightly clumsy adult in a beginning dance class. Now mind you, I never had designs on being a ballerina as a child. I was more interested in stuffing my little sister into a hand-made cradle so as to recount the litany of diseases this poor, destitute child (in my imagination, anyway) was going to succumb. She was a brave little patient, to boot.

My single attempt at "dancing" came at the ripe at of four, when I was politely encouraged to pursue a hobby in playing music, not moving to it. Even a semi-positive foray into folk dancing during elementary school (Tarentella, anyone?) only further my resolved to be in the band.

So what leads a perfectly sane adult to stand in form-fitting clothes and ill-fitting slippers (I finally figured out how to tie them afterward...of course) in front of a very unforgiving mirror and harsh lighting on a rainy night in October? A sense of adventure, I guess. And a deeply misguided belief that I, too, might someday execute a Fouetté rond de jambe en tournant with the greatest of ease. Whatever that means.

On this night, however, I was happy to just to be able to "tondu" from first to second. And not fall over in the process. In fact, I was quite happy with the progression of the first class. The instructor was not rail-thin (thank goodness!), she had a wonderful sense of humor (apparently my suggestion that learning jumps would only take about 20 minutes was a "good" ballet jokes), and the class as a whole -if not totally able to conquer the sautée on the first try - earnestly embraced every new term and step as if we were new immigrants memorizing the answers to the citizenship test. The French citizenship test, that is.

I'm kinda hooked now. Moving like this felt good! The next day I had muscles screaming that I hadn't felt since a misstep in high school plyometrics rendered me nearly unable to drag myself up the stairs without both hands on the rail. Indeed, the endorphine rush continues; I'm fully confident that within a month or two, I'll be showing off my prowess like a white girl version of Gregory Hines and Mikhail Baryshnikov in White Knights. And on that note, here's a preview of my next moves. Watch closely: you might just experience that perfect Fouetté rond de jambe en tournant after all.

Día de la Resistencia Indígena

Yep, I like the sound of that better: Día de la Resistencia Indígena, or Day of Indigenous Resistance, which is the term Venezuelans use for our Anglo-centric celebration of "Columbus Day." Now I'm not ganna get all PC on ya here. In fact, I fully believe that if members of First Nations want to license their tribal names out to college football teams and open up a casino on every reservation, they should be able to do so. Heck, the least we owe them is a slice of the capitalist dream.

More interesting to me, though, is a continuing fascination with travel to "exotic" locations over 500 years after Columbus first set foot on foreign soil. There's something about getting away from what we know that continues to fuel human travel, and the travel industry. This might sound odd coming from a person with no passport, who immediately recycles the Travel section in every Sunday New York Times, and whose idea of travel begins and ends with a day trip to Manhattan. I'm not saying I understand this desire to travel, but I acknowledge that it's there. These days, if you haven't solo climbed the Himalayas, backpacked through the former Eastern Bloc, or snorkeled off the coast of Costa Rica, you haven't really lived. Well guess what? I'm living just fine without any of these things.

Why don't I like to travel? I think in large part I'm afraid that what's on the other side of the journey simply won't live up to expectations, won't be "other" or "exotic" enough. David Sedaris writes, "I thought back to the previous summer, and my twenty-three-hour flight from London to Sydney... spend that much time on a plane and you’re entitled to a whole new world when you step off at the other end—the planet Mercury, say, or, at the very least, Mexico City. For an American, though, Australia seems pretty familiar: same wide streets, same office towers. It’s Canada in a thong, or that’s the initial impression." That's not the moral of the larger story he's telling, but I found it to be one of the most astute observations in the essay. As least as it pertains to my life.

I didn't ride an airplane until I was 19, and even then it was by accident. A freak snow storm had closed off all train travel in and out of Chicago, and driving back to college was equally impossible. The only alternative? A 27 minute flight to Midway Airport. Alone. Oh well - there's a first time for everything. I can't even remember the flight, it was so uneventful. And on the other end was a cold, tiny dorm room and mounds of icy snow. Meh.

So even if it's not all about the destination, at least the journey should yield something meaningful, right? I've travelled more extensively by train than any other form of transportation. And having covered 2/3 of the distance across the US in an Amtrak Coach Car, I can say again...meh. Maybe it's because train tracks tend to snake like tendrils throughout the less desirable vistas of small towns and big cities alike. Have you ever wanted to catalogue the back sides of used tire lots, the broken windows on abandoned warehouses, AND the rotting wood ghosts of train stations past? Then Amtrak it is! Sorry if I sound so cynical, but unless there's a sightseeing car and you hit that perfect spot of daylight while traversing mountains or something, it just ain't that grand.

So, if given my druthers on a holiday like today, I choose to stay home. Alone. And I think there's nothing wrong with that. I'll be celebrating with my own form of resistance, thank you very much.