Am I the Only One?

My favorite pastime of late is packing avoidance. This weekend I indulged in such decadent things as reading a whole book in one day and squandering much time in front of the television. Sunday night I was vegging out and channel surfing, when I happened upon the pilot of a new drama. I found myself being pulled in by characters and story lines, and one of the characters bites the neck of a contractor and drains his blood.

Really? Another one of these?

I’ve clearly missed a major memo. While I’m all for the willing suspension of disbelief, this whole vampire/werewolf obsession that seems to be everywhere just isn’t my thing. My suspension of disbelief stops somewhere around the attractive man falling in love with the witty, yet frumpy, heroine. I have no interest in vampires, time travel, or magic potions. I am happy to cede the point that some of this stuff may be well written, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it. Does it?

It’s Official

There have been many moments in my life that seemed to point to nerdiness. Several years on the math team come to mind. Or the fact that my books and CDs are alphabetized. Or that I know to the penny how much I’ve spent every single day for the last 11 years. Today I’ve taken it to a new level.

If all goes according to plan (and that’s a capital I, capital F), I’ll be moving in 13 days. The apartment I’m hoping to move into is approximately half the size of my current place. So, over the course of the last four weeks I’ve been donating, gifting, and posting on craigslist. (By the way, if you know of anyone looking for a patio table or a treadmill, let me know.) I think I’m down to an amount of stuff that will fit. Make that, I hope I’m down to an amount of stuff that will fit.

To test this theory out, I started creating different furniture configurations in my mind. Then I moved those configurations into PowerPoint. Then I measured my furniture to verify I had the dimensions right, and built a 1:25 scale drawing of the new apartment. None of the configurations seemed quite right, so I’ve now created a paper doll version of my scale model. My parents will be visiting this weekend, and I have every intention of putting my mother’s creative mind to work on my layout. I picture us having a lovely time rearranging paper cutouts on my scale floor plan until we have something that’s just right. Then, as I cut out little shadows of my furniture, it hit me.

I’m definitely a nerd.

Obnoxious: odiously or disgustingly objectionable: highly offensive

As I stepped on the subway Tuesday evening, I was happy to find plenty of open seats. As I took one, I noticed the young woman sitting across from me intently applying make-up. Staring into her compact mirror, she repeatedly dabbed her brush in powder, then blew the excess powder off the brush, while I watched a lovely little cloud of powder drift toward me. I thought how tacky it is to apply make-up in public. I thought how humid it was to be applying make-up. I thought how shiny my own face must be due to said humidity. As the clouds continued billowing toward me, I thought all sorts of things. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the man to my right look at the make-up process, then roll his eyes and shake his head.

As she continued working on her face, her brush knocked a chunk of make-up out of the compact and onto the floor. I thought about the mess that would inevitably make. And then she surprised me: she bent over to pick the make-up of the floor. I thought how I had misjudged her. Obviously she was considerate enough not to leave a mess. She then put the make-up she’d picked up back into her compact, then continued to dab her brush in it, blow the excess off, and apply it to her face. I thought I might throw up.

People had been getting on and off the train, and at this point it was a little more crowded. As another cloud wafted my way, I looked to the left and saw two women standing up, mesmerized and appalled by my make-up-applying friend. We shared a smirk and a headshake. When the next cloud formed, I looked toward them again, and we shared another moment. Shortly after, the young woman closed her compact, put it in her bag, and got off at the next stop. And I thought that was the end of this amusing little scene.

Just after she exited the train, the young man to my left began talking.

Him: You really shouldn’t laugh at strangers.
(I turned and confirmed he was talking to me.)
Me: I never laughed out loud. I kept it inside.
Him: It was pretty obvious.
Me: She picked up make-up from the floor of the subway
and put it on her face!
Him: It was pretty obnoxious.
Me: Wait . . . I’m obnoxious??!!!!

I had erroneously assumed until this point that he was being sarcastic.

Him: Yes, you were being really obnoxious.
Me: Well, I found it obnoxious that she was blowing make-up on everyone around her. That was the reason I noticed her in the first place.
Him: You don’t know her. You were obviously looking around trying to find people to make fun of her with. It was obnoxious.
Me: Well, you’re entitled to your opinion.
Him: It was obnoxious to laugh like that.
Me: I guess this is kind of circular. You thought I was obnoxious. I thought she was obnoxious. I wonder who she thinks is obnoxious.
Him: It’s obnoxious to laugh at strangers like that.

And I finally got smart enough to turn away from him and remain silent until my stop. Now that I’ve had a couple days to reflect, I can say with certainty that at least one person on that train was most definitely obnoxious. And I feel pretty certain that it wasn’t me.

No Time to be Picky

A few years ago, my brother had just started dating a woman who was clearly not good enough for him. (Biased much, little sis?) After hearing a voicemail left by this woman on my sister’s answering machine, I said something about her being crazy. To which my sister responded to my brother, “You’re almost 40; you can’t afford to be picky.” I don’t recall how I responded at the time, but I know what I thought:

• You’re almost 40; there’s a lot more crazy out there to weed through.
• You’re almost 40; you’ve avoided getting tied to the wrong person so far, don’t blow it now.
• You’re almost 40; you won’t have as many years to recover if a relationship turns out to be horribly wrong.
• You’re almost 40; it’s time to be pickier than ever.
  

I thought of this brief encounter in the kitchen today because of a conversation I had with a colleague who shares my job status (there aren’t many of us out there in my particular situation). We jointly wondered how to balance being open to opportunities while trying to protect the lives we want. I can hear the practical angel on my shoulder saying, “Your job ends in October, you can’t afford to be picky.” And then my true self pipes up:

• I’ve put my life on hold for three years; shouldn’t I get some sort of return on that investment?
• I’ve put my life on hold for three years; if I take the wrong job now, am I just maintaining the instability?
• I’ve put my life on hold for three years; if I settle now, was it all for naught?
  

Lots of questions. So far, no answers.

One Step Closer to Homelessness

One of the things I’ve noticed as I’ve moved from state to state is that no two areas have the same rental rules. I’ve also noticed that every landlord assumes their rules are universal. Apparently, the norm in Fairfield county Connecticut is to demand 60 days notice before vacating. This has become an issue for me.

I’ll back up. Since I moved back to Connecticut, I’ve been going through train tickets to Manhattan like people with halitosis go through mints. (Or at least like I wished they went through mints. And gum. And toothpaste. And floss). In other words, I’ve spent an amount of time in the city that some may deem excessive. It draws me in. I may have actually confessed at one point that I’ve become obsessed with it. So back and forth I go. My inner 9-year-old says, “If you love it so much, why don’t you just marry it?” Since land mass-human nuptials are currently frowned upon, I’m doing the next best thing: moving there.

And there’s where the problem comes. I’ve recently begun the search for an apartment. Even with all my experience in this field, I knew it would be different this time. For one thing, this move will be indefinite. (Yikes! The last time I did this was six years ago.) For another thing, well, this is an area that considers a fifth-floor walkup completely reasonable and 500 square feet spacious. All that aside, what really freaks me out is that there’s no lead time. See an apartment you like? Great! Plan on your lease starting tomorrow.

So, I’ve made my peace with not having an address. I’m giving my 60 days notice on my current place this week. And I’m just going to have to trust the universe that I won’t wind up living in my car.

Almost Famous

Not so long ago, I began stalking an old professor. Not in a creepy way. I was in a spell of reading young adult fiction, and remembered that this particular professor wrote in that genre, and I’d always liked her style, so I thought I’d see what she was up to. When I looked for her online, I found that she was a contributor to a blog. I began reading her weekly posts, then slowly began reading the other entries as well. I’ve become a big fan. These four women have strong voices that offer a great combination of insight, kindness, and laughter. On Fridays they have a guest blogger. I’ve been planning to write something to submit for the guest spot, but, like so many things in my life, haven’t gotten around to it. But, unlike most plans I make, this one didn’t just fade away (I really will get to Canada one of these days).

Yesterday, I received an email, asking if The Apron Stage could use my napping post for the guest spot this week. I was stunned. Not only could I have the guest spot, but I didn’t have to do any additional work. This is as close to ideal as it gets. Now I’ll just wait for a publishing house to contact me for permission to publish my two novel chapters as they are.

Who Decided This Pleasure was Guilty?

My name is Kelly and I am a napper.

“Hi Kelly.”

There are few things that are so enjoyable, and feel so verboten, yet, aren’t actually bad for you, as a nap. Doubt that napping is looked down upon? Subtly mention that you catch a few winks in the middle of the day in your next corporate meeting, and check the reaction of your colleagues. That look isn’t admiration.

Naps are on my mind today because I’m craving one right now. Thanks to the nuisance of daylight saving time (a pox on your house, George Vernon Hudson), I’m unusually tired this afternoon. Add to that the wet, gray conditions outside, and crawling under the sheets sounds near heavenly.

But this situation is not my ordinary nap scenario. While napping as an antidote to sleepiness seems rather practical, it is not the napping in which I typically indulge. No, I’m a fan of the Sunday Afternoon Nap: the nap I take just because I can. What is it about crawling into bed in broad daylight that feels so decadent? I get into that bed every night, and rarely even notice it. But during the day . . . that’s self-indulgent delight. It’s the sense that I’m getting away with something; that time is wasting and I’m not doing anything useful; that any minute someone could call, and, catching the sleepiness in my voice, ask, “Did I wake you?”

So, in the end, I suppose I’m grateful that napping is frowned upon in the adult world. If it was acceptable--or heaven-forbid, encouraged--I wouldn’t enjoy it half as much.