NOT A Bucket List

Why NOT a bucket list? Well, first off, I don't plan on "kicking the bucket" any time soon. Second, that's a tired, overused phrase (as was, apparently, the plot of the movie by the same name) and I don't like cliches. Third, I'm not really into lists. I've never found them particularly useful for groceries, to-do's, top 10's, or any of the ilk.

But...I'm turning 30 in a week, and I think that this seminal birthday deserves at least a half-hearted attempt at setting some goals and aspirations. Note that I am not holding myself to said list, but merely using it as an inspiration for what the coming year might bring. For a far more organized and executed list, click here.

1. Spend less time online. You may think this one would be impossible for me, seeing as how it's my job and all. But doing so means I can...

2. Spend more time enjoying DC. I mean, duh! I live in one of the greatest cities in the world, as far as free sightseeing goes. Gotta get out more so that I might...

3. Actually RUN a 5k/10k, instead of just paying lip service to it and walking most of the way. Because only then will I...

4. Fit back into my old, designers clothes (see this for further evidence). You see, I just want to...

5. Project a more professional image at work. I've relied too long on leggings and a cardigan to get me through the day. But no more because I...

6. Need to start acting my age. By which I don't mean "old," but rather mature and pulled-together. Which leads me to want to...

7. Engage in some professional development beyond the same old boring webinars and conferences. I need to push myself to learn new and teach them to others. However I also...

8. Need to have more fun. Like, join a club, take a class where there aren't any grades, join the circus. On the other hand I...

9. Want to deepen friendships I already have. There are lots of great people in my life and I want to get to know them better. Still, though, there nothing like...

10. Being a compassionate pet owner and animal lover. I want to do more in this area. But mostly I...

11. Want to be happy. Not for anybody else or for any special reason. But just because I deserve it.

I'm so vain...

Okay, let's be brutally honest here: eating healthier and working out are great for the body and mind. But what about my wardrobe? I won't lie: I want to lose weight to fit into my designer clothes. After reading a brilliant article by British writer Tanya Gold in the Mail Online (don't judge) last May, I've become somewhat obsessed with how designers treat larger women. And I'm not talking about models and eating disorders and all that jazz, but rather the size-12 and up market for those of us who have the bucks to spend but nowhere to spend them.

Apparently the plus-size clothing market has seen twice the decrease in sales as compared to women's apparel (10 versus 5 percent), which is a bit quixotic in a recession. Or is it? Obese women - on average - earn $2.64 per hour less than their average-size colleagues. Cutting back on clothing, therefore, makes sense.

I, however, have never stopped loving clothes, regardless of my size. But I'm really starting to miss out on the great pieces lying fallow in my color-coded closet. Where have you been, Balenciaga? You've left me jilted, Jil Sander. Dries van Noten's just draped over the hanger. Moschino and Miu Miu...I've missed you. If no single other thing keeps me eating healthy and walking that mile to the Metro, then let it be vanity.

Even in this time of recession fashion and cutting back, the words of George Hamilton in Zorro, the Gay Blade: "Remember, my people, there is no shame in being poor … only in dressing poorly."

I'm Rolling in a Doughnut, and a Snake Wearing a Vest

There's this great scene in Pee-Wee's Big Adventure when he's sitting inside of a giant dinosaur with Simone, a woman he's just met. She asks him about his dreams and he starts responding with the line in the title of this blog. It's hilarious not only because she's asking him about his dreams and aspirations (not literal dreams), but because it's such a non sequitor response.

Although as of very recently, I can totally relate. You see, dear readers, yours truly is undergoing a transitional period of switching from one routine of treatment for bi-polar disorder (2 types of pills, 3 1/2 pills total/day) to another (one pill, once a day). It's a change for the best, but it's wrought a big of havoc as of late, not the least of which are technicolor-vivid dreams incorporating past, present, and - in once bizarre case - even real life in real time. Let me illustrate with an example.

Last night found me a bit restless, but finally sleeping for a few hours in a row. Suddently I realized that my Mom was asking me about my senior recital for piano. Mind you, I haven't been a senior in high school for over a decade. As I was whining and complaining, I hopped into her bright yellow H2, which was parked in my old church's parking lot. It took me a minute to recall that my mother does not own an H2 - she has a minivan. I inquired about the vehicle and she said the ladies in the church kitchen didn't use it during the day so - obviously! duh! - my Mom drove it around. Okay, fair enough.

We get back to my parents house and I'm still whining that I simply was not prepared to give a recital in 10 days. Besides, I couldn't find the song book I was looking for, although I seem to have a disproportionate number of Beatles' song books. (Blame it on their recent Guitar Hero special edition.) My Mom and Dad were telling me to hurry up, the song books were all jumbled under the piano bench with my clothes - like my actual clothes that I recognized from real life (why hello, Gap plum striped v-neck t-shirt) - and I was just in a panic trying to get my books together.

You see, before I had run into my Mom at church, I had actually stopped by my piano teacher's studio which was inexplicably at the end of a hallway in a huge school (in real life she taught out of her home), but luckily I had arrived well before my lesson time and for some reason there was a line out the door. I guess she's really popular in my dreams! Oh, and I saw my best friend from third grade in the hallway and promised to catch up with him after my lesson. So, anyway, I know the clock is ticking and all I have to do is get back to the end of that hallway, play "Yesterday" or something and get on with.

Only by the time I locate the right books, the H2 is gone from my parent's driveway. Luckily, however, there's a horse there and - guess what? - I know how to ride it! I can sense that my entire family is also riding the horse with me, although don't ask me how that happened. Next thing I know I'm on the snowy streets of Girls School Road heading toward 10th Street and then on past my old schools Fulton and Ben Davis and I just know that other school is up on the right. It's like a video game, getting down the street, with pedestrians running out in front of me, cars dogding in and out of lanes...the whole nine yards.

Finally we arrive at what I think is the entrance (almost there, Mrs. Smith, piano teacher du jour!) but it doesn't look quite right and so we go to the next entrance and then we're at some terribly fancy, ginormous stone building that I sense if for the American Legion and whatnot and some guy in a top hat and tails is leading my horse inside and helping me dismount. I say goodbye to my family and ask how I get back to the school, where my piano teacher's waiting, which I'm still pretty sure is right next door. They tell me the next tour leaves in 15 minutes. A tour?! I can't just walk there?

Okay, fine. I get into the right tour, but before we can leave I realize President Obama is addressing the group! I must be somewhere important! How exciting! As we file out past the President I realize that I'm wearing some Army uniform and Obama looks right at me and says, "Don't you know it's illegal to wear that if it's not yours?" I mumble something about it being a fake and promise to take it off right away. Okay - there's my tour. Wait, wrong turnstyle. Wait! Where'd they go? Nooo...they left without me. I guess I'll still down in these chairs and see what's going on in the auditorium.

Ruh-roh, people are debating health care and I can tell I'm definitely not among like-minded individuals. As the presenters get more and more in-depth with the single payer versus public options I can't help but wonder how my brain is processing all of this in a dream. Slowly I realize I'm recognizing a voice. It's Mika Brzezinski from MSNBC's Morning Joe. Ahh...I've been slowly waking up and incorporating the television show into my dream. Phew! I hope I wouldn't end such a fantastical dream on such a boring note.

So there you have it. Don't do drugs kids. And if you do, make sure they're the legal kind that let you ride horses and meet the President.

There's Not an App for That

It started out innocently enough: sporadic flirtation, some fumbles along the way, the awkward touch or two, but we eventually worked past those initial challenges. I mean, it wasn't love at first sight. Like that weird-smelling guy with the cane who always sits a little too close to me on the bus, ours was an awkward juxtaposition at first. We'd waited a long time to finally meet each other and I was just so nervous! I'd had hopes and dreams that someday we would be together; but things just never seemed to work out.

Once we were, though, it didn't take long for us to enter the heady, happy days of our early courtship, that "honeymoon" phase where all flaws are overlooked and forgiven. We were in each other's company constantly - but so many others like us were - I didn't think anything of it. Nothing out of the ordinary. It had been just weeks of pure bliss. Well, almost. There was no small amount of disconnect, for sure, but only when we were home. When we went out, everything was fine!

And then came Independence Day. We'd been inside hanging out - it was hot. And somewhere amid the flurry of fireworks and wafting odors of charcoal, you were gone. Nary a sound as you departed.

Just like that, iPhone 3G. You. Were. Gone.


Wow. It was all so unexpected. I thought things were good. I mean, not great, but good, you know? Surely we could have worked out any problems. Why didn't you say something? Will I ever feel like that again?

I waited and looked, searching for you everywhere, hoping you'd turn up in an unexpected place. I had my friends call you - yes, I'm that girl - desperately hoping you'd pick up. But you never did. And I expected to go my own way.

And then something magical happened. I met the iPhone 3G S. Sure, it wasn't the same. Is anything ever really comparable to your first love? But it was good. It was very good. It's like meeting your ex-boyfriend's cousin at a party and finding out he's both better looking and more talented. That's what it was like. And I was happy. We were happy.

Or so I thought. Things became increasingly fraught as your family's genetics once again reared their ugly head. The lack of communication! He just shut down for no apparent reason! And why do I have to register for free applications now?

But alas, I digress. I was a steamy August day, sweat beading on my forehead, my Neutrogena "dry touch" sunscreen permeating my palms. And I dropped him. Like the anger welling up in a t-shirt wearing, ignorant-vitriol-spewing, health-care-town-hall-meeting participant as she takes on her Senator, I was furious. At myself, at you, iPhone 3G, for abandoning me, lo, 6 weeks ago. The iPhone 3G S was great, sure. But it was no you.

I am now giving up. I'm terminating my contract. I'll pay the replacement costs, return your cousin to the IT Department, and seek higher grounds. Perhaps with the Palm Pre.

It was good while it lasted, this whirlwind romance of ours. Too bad it had to end in tragedy.

Burnin' Up

How did I ever do it? How did I ever spend the hottest summer months wearing a 60 pound drum for three hours a day in the blistering sun? How did I ever spend two early fall months wearing the same drum in a fully lined wool/polyester long-sleeve, full-length pants uniform? How did I ever do it?


In the following years, I lived in a 19th-century dorm room, a second-floor walk-up, a post-war low-rise, and a 1920s bungalow...none of which had air conditioning. In fact, for only one year did I enjoy the benefits of central air, when I lived in a converted harness factory loft. And even then, it often felt like the coolness hovered in the upper two feet of the fourteen-foot ceilings.

Now, having inhabited a lovely subterranean dwelling, replete with central A/C, I find myself a hot mess - literally - when I leave the house and must face the not-even sweltering heat and humidity of a DC summer. In short, I've become soft. I've lost my advantage in the war against Summer. Summer heat >= moi.

I've read about people giving up their A/C for environmental or bedgetary reason, but how could I? I'm SO HOT when I get home. How would I ever cool down? This vicious cycle has no apparent end, and for that I am concerned. Move to a cooler clime? Open the window (yeah, there's only one), turn on the fan, and hope for the best? Become like one of those creepy old dudes on the bus with a towel around his neck? Yeesh! I don't like my options.

It seems that some people flit through summer with nary a care: Button down suits! Black sweaters! Long hair worn flowing! I, however, am not one of those people. Not anymore. Hey, Canada! You got room for one more? I might be on my way...

Don't Call Me...I'll, um...

Well, I can't call you. Because I don't have a mobile phone right now. In fact, I haven't had a mobile phone for over three weeks at this point.

Guess what? I haven't missed it. Not for a moment.

Even when I was unable to reach the people for whom I was supposed to babysit...I used a pay phone.

Even when I really, really wanted to order a pizza...I used their online ordering option.

Even when I... Wait. Those are the only two times I needed a mobile phone. So there.

To all those hunched-back, semi-zombies on public transit, lingering on their every email notification - get a life.

To all those text-obsessed, can't miss a missive backlit-keyboard-illuminated drones - get a life.

To all those attached-at-the-hip, can't-leave-my-desk-without-being-connected paranoids - get a life.

Yep. I get an iPhone from work this week. But I dare you to catch me looking at it.

Some New Kicks, Yo

How's a girl supposed to get her walk/jog on in beat up old New Balance tennies, pray tell? She is not supposed to, that's what. So today, I took a lunch hour trek (a veritable luxury to me, considering I once worked at the corner of Nothing St. and Nowhere Ave.) to Pacers Running Store, one of those local businesses that you're so very, very lucky if you have available in your neighborhood.

Now, I know I have large feet. Heck, I have a large frame, a big head, the whole nine yards. I take no offense; this is simply the way things are and the way they shall always be. But I wasn't quite prepared for the shoes I was to eventually to be fitting in - the Big Ones. Let me explain...

I have worn a size eleven shoe for just about as long as I can remember. There was that one pair of size ten Doc Martens that I held on to for way too long (on both stylistic and anatomical grounds), but other than that, I was a straight-up eleven by age nineteen. And then I went back to working retail full-time again in my mid-20's and people said, "Oh, if you spend that many hours on your feet, they'll get bigger," and I laughed and thought, Whatever, you people don't know what you're talking about - you sell clothes for a living (duh, what was I doing for a living?) and then...size twelve. Like, almost all the time. I can swing a size 42 if I'm buying European shoes (11 1/2 - delightful!), but just like that, I went up a size.



And, with full knowledge of this, the lovely salesclerk didn't even measure my feet today, but saw that I walked in with a pair of size eleven MEN'S running shoes on my feet, yet dutifully attempted to fit a pair of women's size 12. Twice. No go. But the third pair - a men's size eleven (shown actual size, above) - fit just right and provided the proper amount of support my super-pronating right foot desperately needs.

So here I am again, with a seemingly ginormous pair of running shoes straight out the box. C'est la vie...

Strike!

Went bowling last night. Today = pain. I hadn't been bowling in nearly 20 years (ugh - sounds weird to say that) and my muscle memory had certainly faded. I bowled four sorta-not-terrible games (a handful of strikes, a handful of gutter balls) and had a wicked good time. My shoulders hurt like a mother today, as do my triceps. In short, bowling is fun and a good workout. I shall return soon. In the meantime, I leave you with the trailer for the best bowling-centered move ever...

New Gig, Yo!

And not a moment too soon. Ugh, it's like, you know when you need a change, but there's no real change forthcoming, so you just dye your hair a different shade of boring and hope you'll wake up and the world will be different? Oh. Guess that's just me.

Um, anyway, yeah...brand new gig tomorrow. Different commute, different line of work (sorta), new coworkers, possibly an office (?), and - drumroll please - a pension plan. What? You mean I don't have to rely solely on my ING online savings account to support me after retirement? Get. Out.

Oh, and super-double-bonus: on-site gym. You see, I've been slacking in the working out department lately, although I did traverse most of the Mall, Penn Quarter, and Chinatown today, some on purpose and some just 'cause.

So it's back to the treadmill tomorrow. And I get to figure out what random tchotchkes shall inhabit my new workspace. Good times all around. Good times indeed.