I mentioned way back here that I’ve been getting a lot of questions about this upcoming trip to Costa Rica. Since then, some people have been acting a little… timid… around me. Like they’re afraid to say or ask anything lest I bite their heads off with my self-righteous wailing.
Let me clarify by saying that these – well most of them – are not bad questions. If I seem annoyed when they’re asked, it’s only because I’m irritated with the fact that they force me – repeatedly – to face the fact that I don’t really know what I’m doing.
I do, however, know that when I force myself to answer them, I don’t doubt for a second that this trip will be a worthwhile experience.
And don’t worry – we’ll be sharing our packing list and trip blunders along the way.
But it’s the after questions – the, “What are you going to do when you get back?” and, “How long can you sustain your finances without a real job?” questions that, as much as I hate to admit it, make my pits turn damp and stop me cold.
For these, I really have no answer. Right now I only know my way out of what I don’t want in this life. Stagnancy. Politics. Achievements in the form of framed certificates I can hang on my cubicle wall.
Slowly, after literally years of questioning the career path that found me, I eventually realized that all I can do is take my exit, as gracefully as possible, and hope it leads me not just somewhere else, but somewhere better.
I picked up on another Avett Brothers line the other day (I’m sorry if you’re sick of the mentions here – but their lyrical wisdom is far superior to anything I could write myself), that translated the plea in my head to real words:
“I’m as nowhere as I can be / Could you add some somewhere to me?”
There’s that word again. Somewhere.
When it dawned on me that I’m only where I’m “supposed” to be and doing what I’m “supposed” to be doing, I wondered why I’m not doing what I want to be doing. I can’t explain it. It’s pure selfishness in all its glory. And I don’t necessarily think that’s a bad thing.
All I knew was that I needed a new experience. Any experience.
So that’s what I’m after.
(That, and figuring out how to make my thoughts work without ending them in prepositions. Because like Winston Churchill, “Ending a sentence with a preposition is something up with which I will not put.”)
After that? Who knows. But I’m sure it will be great.
And even if it’s not, at least it will be me.
*The internet is a veritable soup of hauntingly beautiful imagery mixed in among the muck and grime of other less inspiring, mundane frivolities (like this here blog). Although we’d like to get to the point where most of the images found here are our own, all of the ones you see in this post were acquired from weheartit.com, which, in turn, compiled the images from other places across the web. If you happen to find your image here and want it credited or removed, just contact us and we will comply pronto. Thanks!
I guess I am going to continue this whole “infomercial bidness” I started way back when after all.
I fully intended to let this topic fade into obscurity like so many of my other empty promises (I mean, why start making good on those suckers now, right?) — but, lo and behold, here we are.
I’m just as surprised as you are about this sudden, uncharacteristic bout of tenacity.
So, where were we when I last posted? Ah yes. As I mentioned before, I’m a flaming infomercial addict who… yadda, yadda…
Every Christmas since I turned 16, my Dad has gotten me some sort of emergency car kit complete with jumper cables, orange traffic triangles, battery chargers, flux capacitors, etc. Every Christmas. I get the feeling my Dad thinks I’m some sort of pathetic, dim-witted female who regularly finds herself stranded helplessly on deserted roads in the middle of the night.
Which I am.
Which is, of course, precisely the reason it’s more probable I’ll choose to accept a ride from a twitchy-eyed stranger with a hook for a hand than waste my time bothering to figure out how to actually use anything in this kit. But, hey, thanks for thinking of me, Dad!
Verdict: Basically, the only time I even remember I own this kit is when I take a corner too fast and hear a vague dull thud from the trunk. So it’d probably be useful only for those who (a) are sensible, resourceful, capable adults who are vigilant about their personal safety, or (b) morons like me who think it’s comedy gold to to tell passengers that the thud they heard was just a drugged homeless guy in the trunk.
Next up…
My Lil’ Reminder Keychain* (AsSeenOnTV.com, $8.95 for 2)
Technically, I didn’t buy this item. This was a thoughtful gift given to me by my oldest brother as a way to conveniently record quick notes to myself when paper and pen (or, you know, blood and walls) weren’t handy. And it probably would’ve simplified my life in miraculous ways if I weren’t entirelycreepedoutto the very core of my being by it.
Ok, so maybe my reaction’s a little extreme. But, the way I see it, considering how often I engage in weird, strange, quirky, and/or bizzare behaviors, it’s only by the grace of the Lord Almighty that I have managed to avoid becoming a hapless, slack-jawed victim of YouTube. So choosing to use a recording device seems a little too much like thumbing my nose at Fate. And that prospect alone might’ve been reason enough for me to steer clear, but then add to that the time I was 13 and went on vacation to Fort Fisher with a girlfriend and her family and her Dad got a call from the hotel manager a few weeks after the trip saying that he had us on video surveillance doing cartwheels in the hallway in our bras and underwear in the middle of the night.
It’s just a bit traumatic to have to carry around for 15 years the knowledge that your friend’s Dad knows that, on occasion, you willfully engage in half-naked cartwheels, you know?
Verdict: I recommend this handy gadget for those of you without crippling media phobias or proclivities toward “double rainbows”-style freakouts. And for those who do, well, God help us.
* Ok, I lied a bit. This isn’t theexactsame brand I own, but I couldn’t find mine online. I know it’ll be hard to trust me again. I’m willing to go to couples counseling if it’ll help us get past this.
Moving on…
Debbie Meyer Green Bags (GetGreenBags.tv, $9.95 for 20 bags)
These bags, which are designed to naturally extend the life of your fruits and veggies, are the holy grail for anyone like me who decides, in a guilty, post-weekend-long-S’more-bender, to spend a small fortune on leafy greens, only to sentence said produce to a lonely, smelly, agonizing death in the bowels of the crisper before finally being tossed out a month later.
Mind you, these bags don’t work miracles — it won’t keep fruits and vegetables fresh forever and it sure as heck won’t make them taste any better than what they are — but it prolongs the shelf-life by about a week to a week-and-a-half. And that’s usually just enough time for me to have Hoovered up everything else in the fridge (including condiments) and, in a hungry rage, grudgingly resort to those celery sticks and alfalfa sprouts I bought three weeks ago.
Verdict: The downside is these bags are a little flimsy (it’d be great to have this technology in Tupperware), need twist-ties, and wear out after about 15-20 uses, but if you’re a regular produce-eater — or just prone to random bouts of guilt-driven produce purchasing — they’re definitely worth the money.
Whether or not to buy this device is perhaps one of the most personal decisions you will make in your life. It’s the Sophie’s Choice of hair removal. See, on the one hand, the Epilator works — and, unless you are some sort of Yetti, you will enjoy blissfully hair-free legs, armpits, etc., for up to two weeks. On the other hand, there is a good chance that, during the initial hair removal process, you will pass out on your bathroom floor and not be found for several days, thus significantly reducing your appreciation for smooth legs during that time.
Basically, it comes down to what lengths you are willing to go to in order to be hair-free. Because the way the Epilator works is by ripping out your hair follicles by their roots. And that is not merely advertising jargon like “Blasts through soapscum!” or “Destroys odors!” This device quite literally RIPS YOUR HAIR OUT. Right in front of its wailing follicle family. And the process can take up to an hour if you’ve got really hairy legs or a lot of surface area to cover.
I’ll admit I’m probably not the typical consumer here. I absolutely loathe shaving because it takes me up to 30 minutes, I always somehow mangle my shins while leaving random patches around my knees, and then I have to do the whole convoluted process all over again the next day. So, for me, the up-front cost is worth the long-term reward. Also, it helps that (a) I have a pretty high pain tolerance in general, and (b) years of using this gadget have deadened all sensation in my lower extremities.
Verdict: If you’re thinking about buying this, I recommend you do some serious soul-searching. Go for a walk on a beach. Watch a sunset. Then take a pair of tweezers and tweeze a few choice hairs as a test. If you start swearing and punching things at random, you’re probably not an ideal candidate.
Ok, that’s it for now! Stay tuned for the next installment… which, at this pace, will be around Fall 2011.
And, hope-of-all-hopes, it’s the last Monday that will ever, ever inspire something like this.
I will, however, miss Mondays with her.
And them.
And him.
And them.
And many, many, many more.
But I’m pretty sure I won’t miss this.
And if I ever have to use one of these again, it will be too soon.
So here’s to Monday – that poor, undervalued and often misunderstood day of the week that for me, until now, was frequently viewed with apprehension and disdain.
But no more.
Today, Monday, we have reached a turning point in our relationship. Today it’s just you, me and a little thing I like to call hope.
So my soon-to-be ex co-worker Stacy (remember her?) recently brought my attention to this little article.
Before I go into my analysis, I just want to say that I’m proud of the fact that we have male and female readers. Even though Erin and I are a couple of chicks, I like to think we’re throwing something out there for everyone. So please don’t take the following rant as guy-bashing. It’s not. I love guys. Some of my favorite people are guys. Truly.
What follows is stupid-article bashing. And while I don’t think Erin and I intend to frequently use this blog as a forum for debate, I’d love to get your take at the end – male or female. Just don’t be too mean. Oh, and please excuse my overzealous use of quotation marks.
RELATIONSHIPS VS. HAPPINESS
First, I’d just like to say how much I love the fact that Fox News decided to write an article called, “Romantic Comedies Can Damage Your Relationship, Study Says” and then file it in the “Sexual Health” section of its website. Now I don’t tend to frequent the Fox News website, but if I did, I think I would head on over to the “Sexual Health” section to look for articles about how often I should get a mammogram, or how to get rid of the crabs that happened in Vegas but did not, in fact, stay in Vegas as promised.
What I would not expect to find is a whiny fluff piece about how romantic comedies (aka. “rom-coms”) are horrible for relationships because they provide a “warm and fuzzy feeling [that] can adversely influence our [womens’] view of real relationships.”
Huh?
So are they saying our view relationships should be cold and abrasive?
I’m already confused.
Dr. Gabrielle Morrissey, director of the so-called study and apparently a “relationship expert” states, “It seems our love of rom-coms is turning us into a nation of ‘happy-ever-after addicts’.”
What’s this, Dr. Morrissey? We shouldn’t hope for happiness in our relationships? And if we do, then they must not be real? Then why are we wasting our time with them? If we didn’t expect relationships to be happy, we’d probably never seek them out. Picture it: women wandering listlessly through the streets looking for a bit of chocolate or a pint of Ben and Jerry’s while men casually stroll by asking them to step into an alleyway every now-and-then.
Never expecting happiness in a relationship? Sounds pretty miserable to me.
The article explains that the study shows these rom-coms lead women to have unrealistic expectations of their partners – outrageous things like wanting their partners to buy them flowers or get down on one knee to propose.
Okay, Fox. I totally could’ve bought your argument if the study showed women were suddenly expecting their men to learn guitar, write them a love song, and serenade them in a courtyard in front of a bunch of strangers ala “A Lot Like Love.” (Great rom-com, by the way.)
But chiding women for expecting a couple of nice gestures along the way? Are these seriously high expectations? Come on. We don’t need to watch romantic comedies to want our partners to do something nice for us. Geez, I’d hate to think what would happen if women asked men to swallow.
Suddenly a little boom box action isn’t looking so tough, is it?
In all fairness, Dr. Morrissey goes on to state, “Real relationships take work, and true love requires more than fireworks.” Really. Because it took an “expert” to tell us that. Of course relationships take work. Maybe work like… I don’t know… thoughtful gestures? But wait. They already said those were unrealistic expectations.
The thing that irks me most of all is her use of the term “true love”. It seems to me that someone who believes “real” relationships should not be “warm and fuzzy” has no business using a term as goopy as “true love”.
That phrase is a little much even for me, and I’m a known sucker for romantic comedies.
FAIR AND BALANCED
There is a key argument missing from this entire story. So, in order to make sure Fox can stay on top of its whole “fair and balanced” motto, I’ve decided to write the second half:
Forget how rom-coms will make us silly, impressionable, doe-eyed women unrealistically expect our horrendously lazy and selfish bastardly man-children to occasionally buy us flowers or get down on one knee while proposing. The nerve.
Most women understand what’s realistic and what is not.
Unrealistic expectation? Probably.
Unrealistic expectation? I hope not.
And in this day-and-age, this works too:
But the other argument this study didn’t reveal is the unrealistic expectations these movies give men about women. Here are just a few:
We don’t sleep in our makeup.
If we do, we don’t wake up with it still looking as fresh and perfect as it did when we first applied it. Instead, it would be smeared all over our face and our pillow. Oh, and our hair doesn’t curl itself in the middle of the night.
We don’t discuss men while sitting around together in our bras and panties. (And if we did, we certainly wouldn’t tell you about it.)
Sometimes we fart.
We’re not going to freak out if you talk to us like grown-ups. Avoiding confrontation isn’t “cute” or “charming” and in the end, lying about something is going to tick us off way more than you telling us you just want a night out with the guys.
Many of us talk about sex more often than we talk about relationships.
We have hair. Hair that social norms require us to shave, wax, chemically burn, or pull out by the roots much more thoroughly and frequently than you. It’s a pain, and sometimes we’re going to get a little lazy.
I can’t think of a single one of us who would mistake you-know-what for hair gel. And if you run across a woman who does, you might want to run the other way.
So that’s that. Guys, just because we’re out there watching these movies doesn’t mean we expect our relationships to be full of grand public gestures of your undying adoration. But do we appreciate thoughtful gifts or kind words? Sure, probably as much as you!
Relationships are work and they do require open communication. And to that effect, maybe the rom-coms are on to something. I think most men and women understand that. Problems arise when we get lazy and start taking our partners for granted – when we stop doing nice things for each other just because we don’t want to take the time, spend the money, do the work.
I am certainly not a relationship expert. The hubs could attest to that. But some things are pretty straightforward.
The bottom line? Guys, no matter how many romantic comedies we watch, women won’t expect you to base-jump off the top of the Empire State Building to prove your love – as long as you don’t expect us to wake up in the morning with fresh breath and flawless eyeliner.
Okay, folks. This is the easiest recipe I’ve shown you thus far. And some of the (very few) ingredients might seem a little strange to you, especially when mixed together and spread onto a bun of deliciousness.
But you want to make these. Trust me.
These mini hammy sammies are perfect for dinner in front of a movie with a cold beer. Or munchin’ on while watching a favorite sporting event with a cold beer. Or enjoying out on the deck on a balmy night with a cold beer.
Catch my drift?
They’re pretty casual, very quick, and, since they’re easy to make in bulk, would work really great for a party appetizer.
The original Mini Ham and Cheese Roll recipe is found here. I hardly change a thing. (Except, you’ll see in this one particular instance, I thought I had poppy seeds when I did not, in fact, have poppy seeds. Please excuse this horrible lapse in judgement and don’t make the same mistake.)
*You definitely want to halve this recipe if you’re just making it for a couple people. The full recipe below makes 24 mini sammies.
WHAT YOU NEED:
2 Tbsp. dried minced onion
1 Tbsp. prepared mustard
2 Tbsp. poppy seeds (Don’t forget these – they’re great.)
1/2 cup butter, melted
24 dinner rolls
1/2 pound chopped ham (I just use sliced deli ham)
1/2 pound thinly sliced Swiss cheese
Missing from the family photo: Butter (he was getting nuked) and Poppy Seeds (they’re probably off at a bar somewhere tossing shots and hitting on wildly inappropriate women – it’s like pulling teeth to get them to come to these reunions).
DIRECTIONS:
1. Preheat oven to 325-degrees F (more like 315 in our case – our oven cooks hot).
2. Melt the butter in a bowl. Just a lil’ tip: If you use a microwave, it’s easier to cut the butter up and cover it with a paper towel so it doesn’t splatter.
3. Add your minced onion, mustard, and poppy seeds (IF they’d bothered to show up) to the melted butter and give it a good stir.
4. Line a baking sheet with foil, then split the dinner rolls. It’s easier if you leave them attached to each other in groups of 2, 4, or even all 8. That way you can spread everything on ’em and it doesn’t drip through while they’re baking. Just cut them apart when you’re done.
5. Here’s where we deviate from the original directions a bit. The original directions say to spread our butter mixture over the top of the buns, but we like to be sneaky and put some inside the buns as well. Let’s be honest – these aren’t exactly healthy. So why not just go all-out?
6. Assemble the sandwiches by adding the ham and cheese. (I’m sure you could’ve figured out where this is going by now, but I like to spell things out. You know, just in case…)
7. Close ’em up and spread or drizzle more of the butter mixture on top. This is necessary so your buns don’t dry out in the oven. Nobody likes dry buns!
Pretend there are lovely little black poppy seeds adorning the tops as well. It just feels like something is missing without them.
8. Bake them for about 20 minutes until the cheese is ooey, gooey, melty and delicious.
9. Pop ’em on a plate and enjoy! And don’t forget the beer.
So I know the Merrell Down & Dirty Mud Run is so last week’s news and right now you guys are probably rolling your eyes, wondering how much longer I plan to trot out that little anecdote every chance I get.
Well, I’m here to tell you: Not only am I trotting it out one more time, but I’m saddling it up and riding it off into the sunset, pardner.
Wait, there are more photos! And despite the fact that they capture my stomach in all its pale translucent, deep-sea jellyfish-like glory, I must say I’m damn proud to show ’em off…
Seriously. Wasn’t kidding about the mud in the mouth-hole.
Ha-HA! I said. That race was laughably easy for my superior skills!
My sneaky husband is being extremely coy about how he procured these shots but, judging by their low resolution, I’m going to go ahead and assume it was by nefarious, illegitimate means. He does that sometimes, the lil’ scamp.
Nevertheless, I am finally able to prove to you all (and myself) that I ran it!
My conscience is clear.
My sins have been absolved.
I have attained sweet, sweet redemption.
And now that I have closure, I am ready to move on with my life and find other interesting topics to post about.
Okay, this post is not “By Katie,” as it automatically notes above. Anything in this post rudely interjected by me (Katie) will appear in this lovely green italic font. I can do that because it’s my blog. Our special guest poster for today is my dear friend Stacy.
Okay, I’ve actually only known her a few months, but since she was hand-picked by Erin and me to replace Erin here in Gray Cubicle Land when she moved off to Frederick, MD, we knew we’d all get along.
And we do. Swimmingly. It’s people like Stacy who make it a little harder for me to leave this place. Lucky for me, she’s decided to relieve some of that burden. In light of this whole Costa Rica thing, people frequently ask, “How can you leave a great job and go work for nothing??” To that I say, “Define ‘nothing.'” As yet another twenty-something struggling with a crisis-of-career faith, I think Stacy can provide some much-needed inspiration – and perhaps even clarification – about what makes “nothing” so damn great.
So here she is:
If I were superstitious, I’d say this tripod of cubicles is cursed.
The third leg of the tripod, Ms. Middle Chair, has been empty for months. I suspect its former occupant became some sort of Russian spy, Congolese chimpanzee charmer, or a hapless, ham-fisted victim who plunged to her death while trying to snap a perfect shot.
Whatever the cause, after just four months of staring at Erin’s derelict potted plant…
…and watching Katie’s ever-growing stack of ne’er-to-be-recycled Starbucks sleeves…
…I’ve got the “itch.”
“Isn’t there a cream for that,” you ask?
Not for this itch. The only cure is ACTION!
Am I accompanying these two brave ladies on their Costa Rican adventure? No…but I am doing something that might raise a few eyebrows: I’m going back to school…to become a park ranger.
I know that might sound anticlimactic, but as Katie often reminds me, “The heart wants what it wants.”
(Thanks for that picture, Stac. Really.)
I know that, in a hopeless economy, I should be content with my first bachelor’s degree and cling desperately to gainful employment. I know that it makes no sense to go back to school to enter a field that pays less than what I’m making now.
But I keep remembering what this Yellowstone park ranger said during a conversation with my man:
My Man: “This must be an awesome gig, right?”
Park Ranger: “I love it. Every day is an adventure.”
My Man: “But you won’t get rich doing it, huh?”
Park Ranger: “No…” (contemplative pause) “But I’m rich in other ways.”
Hell yeah, she gets to wear a really cool hat!
Rich in other ways? Wow.
I once thought I was rich, pre-this job, when I worked in insurance. Insurance was great, except for the whole “being at work” part. Hmm…How can I put this?
I read, grasped, and regurgitated insurance forms – you know, those nasty things most people immediately shred or file away in some dusty bin or bake into a fruit cake – for FIVE YEARS.
I lived for Fridays. I dreaded Mondays. I stopped laughing. I needed a stiff drink every day after work. I started talking in my sleep. I forgot who I was and what I wanted.
When I finally reached a breaking point, I called my mom. “If you stay in insurance, you’ll just be a rich alcoholic,” she said.
So I took a 50% pay cut and took the environmental writing gig here, next to Erin’s dead plant, empty Ms. Middle Chair, and Katie’s corrugated cardboard coffee sleeves.
It’s been a great run. I like my job, but it feels like a segue, like something’s pulling me in another direction. I’ve spent too long trapped in cubicles, and now I want to play in the woods.
Is it wrong for our dreams to evolve? Is it worse to listen, or to ignore? Am I crazy? Are we crazy?
Time might tell. All I know is that, in about a month, these three cubicles will all be empty, and Katie, Erin, and I will be unemployed but pursuing richness in other ways.
I’ll leave you with my mantra, from The Avett Brothers’ Head Full of Doubt / Road Full of Promise:
So I mentioned yesterday that I ran my first 10K race in Philadelphia’s first annual Merrell Down & Dirty Mud Run this past weekend.
However, in all the post-race chaos, I failed to snap a photo of Chuckles and me in all our dirty glory. I wish I had the excuse of being on hardcore hallucinogenics at the time, but I don’t. I just totally didn’t even think about it.
I am, in the words of Napoleon Dynamite, a frickin’ idiot.
Anyway, despite being a total flake, I still pulled it together enough to take some candid photos of my fellow runners braving the mud pit.
And, man, do I love these people.
Everyone seemed to have a different strategy when it came to the mud pit.
Some tackled the challenge head-on.
Some tried a more delicate approach.
And some came prepared for whatever happened.
Goggles. Genius.
Then there were those who got by with a little help from their friends.
While some required other forms of, uh, gentle encouragement?
“You’re a very nice person!” this drill instructor was yelling. “You’re also a snazzy dresser and I admire your haircut!”
Basically, the moral of the story was this: You either embraced gettin’ down & dirty.
Or you didn’t.
But, it didn’t really matter. Because, either way, you got down & dirty.
Dirty.
Dirtier.
Dirtiest.
After all, this wasn’t the “Merrell Clean & Sanitary Mud Run”.
This man had no sympathy for anyone, by the way.
And we all made it to the Finish line with smiles on our faces and mud in our teeth.
And the crowd goes WILD!
And, in the end, it was well worth the dirty running shoes.
