Help Wanted: New Blog Title, New Layout, New Voice

Now that it's a new year, I think it's time for a new blog, that is, a new blog title. Not for the blog post, but an entirely different blog altogether.

This will stay up as an archive of sorts, and a new one will begin. 

I'm looking at a few different options that involve not only the things that I'm passionate about, but the things that are relevant to other people.

I'm open to ideas.

“You Need Not Take Everything So Seriously.”

If I had a dollar for every time someone said that to me, I’d have a lot of Starbucks coffee drinks, or a couple bottles of wine. I didn’t get a dollar each time that was said, and I’ve still had quite a few coffees and wines in my belly.

            I heard you the first time.

            The first time someone said it to me I was sitting, no I was squatting, face-to-the-wall, on my bed talking on the phone to my childhood babysitter. I might have been twelve. I’m certain I was going on and on about something that seemed delicately important at the time, and then the words, “You need not take everything so seriously.”

            The pleaser in me swallowed hard, felt the “knot” in my throat that meant I might cry if I wasn’t careful, and so I said, “I know.”

            And, I did know, I just also knew that knowing that wasn’t going to change thing. I would, and have, taken everything seriously since then; except, maybe, some of the things that I really should have taken seriously. You know, like undergraduate grades and first dates, and long-term relationships, and really meaning to say “I’m sorry,” instead of just saying it. That stuff seemed to just jettison from me without going through the entire social-penetration process. I mean, I may have just met you at the grocery store or through a mutual friend, and within minutes I might be telling you my whole story, emotional and all. Doing that, somehow, probably, anyway, lessened the intensity and truthfulness of the relationships I deemed to be closest. I mean, if my best friends are the ones who are supposed to know all that stuff, and I’m also telling everyone else, then what the hell am I doing?

This is how this works. I start thinking about something that has really no bearing on anything and then discover that it does by thinking about it just a little bit more.

“Stop thinking.”

If I had a dollar for every time someone said that to me, I’d probably be able to pay off my student loan that helped me earn a Master’s degree; which, by the way, required a lot of thinking in order to complete.

In philosophy, which I almost double-majored in, and in graduate school as well as work training I was taught to have a reason for my actions; to be able to explain why I did what I did when asked. Then, combine that with graduate school and two years and twelve classes and some hundred and forty-four discussions of seeing the sentence: “Explain,” explaining just becomes second nature.

As example, the other day someone said to me, “Oh, I see you like red wine.”

I, ready and prepared to answer couldn’t just stop at yes. So, I said, “Yes, because it has such a wide range. There are light reds and then deeper and bolder reds, but I’m really into Malbec these days.” Who the heck wanted to know that? I don’t know, but I told them anyway.

Then, sometimes, this is what happens. That person then says, “Yes, Malbec’s are really great,” almost as a way to put an end to the conversation. If I’m paying attention, my response is simply, “I know.”
           

“I know,” by the way is a phrase that I’ve said quite often, whether I know or not is another question. I’m certain, though, if you asked my Mom how many times I said that phrase, she’d say that she’d have enough dollars to buy me a lifetime of airline miles to come and visit as often as possible.

Speaking of Mom, her birthday is on Tuesday. Happy Birthday, Mom.

Here it goes: “I know you wish I could be with you, but at least you were just here recently and I’ll see you soon.”
           

To which, someone else might say I need not take that so seriously.

And, I, of course, would say, “I know, but…” and explain why I do, in fact, take that seriously.

Thinking About that "Movie Moment"

Have you ever had a “movie moment?” Or, better yet, what would you consider a movie moment?

Sometimes, in social situations, or within my own thought process, I find myself saying aloud, “Wow, that was a movie moment.”

You know what I’m talking about...

It’s that moment when he realizes that she is the one. Or, the moment that they both realize they’re in on the joke together. Or, the aha moment! that two people, friends, or lovers, have when they discover they are far more similar than they ever thought possible. 

You know the line (thanks Harry from When Harry Met Sally): “When you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with someone, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible!” 

But, have you ever been watching a movie and felt that you already had your own movie moment and completely blew it? Have you ever actually found yourself standing in the rain somewhere about ready to tell some guy or some girl that you want to marry them some day and then you don’t?

Here’s the thing. It was more than 10 years by the time I found out that a guy from high school waited outside my sophomore year English class every day and I just walked right by him. Why don’t you people say anything? What’s more, I wonder why even bother telling me now? 

Is there some “hopeful romantic” (not hopeless, but hopeful) thread running through all of us? Do we all somehow sit there and think that the guy we’re having dinner with has been thinking all the same things we’re thinking, but all we do is think it? 

To all the people who say that this (real life) is not the movies, I say yes, that is true. However, we’re all just as stupid and vague and love-struck as all of those movie characters in those predictable movies. We just don’t have a music track to cue the aha-moment!, or the run to him or her in the rain, or the “it’s you” revelation.

What’s your movie moment?

Confidence Found on a Bar Stool

What makes a person confident? Is it the repeated hearing of compliments? Is it something just inside them that says they are confident, or good enough, or smart enough?

Sometimes I wonder about that.

When does confidence become rude? Can your confidence ever hurt another person? Is that even possible, or just a problem with perception?

No, I don’t sit up at night thinking about this kind of stuff, but it is kind of fun to wonder.

I went out last week, alone, because I didn’t want to cook or be home alone. I went to one of my favorite spots and sat in an empty bar stool.

Once the Yankee game was over, the guy sitting next to me struck up a conversation. He was intelligent, thoughtful, and quite attractive. So, I participated in the conversation.

He said one thing to me that I had never quite heard before and didn’t really understand why it resonated so much to me.

But, he, after several attempts of trying to get to know me, finally said, “Are you one of those hot girls who doesn’t believe she’s hot?”

I nearly whiplashed my beer right into his lap with a stunned expression on my face.

Me? A “hot girl”? Of course I never believed that I was or am a hot girl. I am the girl who sits in front of a computer for a living, wears glasses at night, and studies for a graduate degree most of my spare time. 

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, and thinking, but it dawned on me, that maybe there’s hope out there for all of us girls who say that the right guy is either “handicapped or taken.” 

Not that this is or was the right guy. I believe he was an agent of change. He allowed me to understand that everyone’s definition of “hot” is different. Maybe to him, in his young-Tom-Hanks-Ryan-Phillippe-wearing-a-hat-good-looks, being hot was being intelligent and confident. When he asked me what I enjoyed doing, I said I loved to work out and get outside, and also wine taste. I recognized that’s quite a social dichotomy. 

This guy in one sentence handed me a plateful of confidence that I had been missing for years. I’m still not sure what to do with it, but with less than a week of graduate school left, I think I’ll start with smiling more. 

Hot people, in general, don’t frown. 

Then, maybe I’ll pick up and read a book I’ve been meaning to read. 

You know, because hot people, can carry a conversation.

Then, I’ll just shut up and listen, and enjoy the atmosphere, but don’t be afraid to say hello. 

I Need Coffee. Did that Make Sense?

If you’re a regular reader, or sometimes just pass through, I apologize for my weeklong absence. 

I took time away from this journey to work on another journey. This involves some work on your part. Don’t worry, it’s not like homework. It’s very simple. 

If you’ve ever read this blog, why do you read it? What are you looking for? Is there something missing from your life, or is there something you’ve found?

Here’s the thing:

I believe many of us spend our entire lives trying to figure out the secret of life. But, as Faith Hill sings, “The secret of life is nothing at all.” 

There is also a question about “happiness.” That is almost a buzz word these days. What makes you happy? Who makes you happy? Why do they make you happy? 

Can’t we just be happy when we wake up in the morning?

Alright, so here’s the thing. When someone tells you something that you don’t really want to hear but you know to be true, how do you react?

Ok, because once someone told me, “You don’t write well. I can’t understand what you’re saying.”

It drove me nuts because my teachers had all selected me for writing awards growing up. I didn’t understand how my educators could respect my writing but my peers and colleagues could not. 

In college it proved to be a real problem. Fortunately, I had a professor who listened to me in class and recognized my thought process. 

Professor Lisa Smith was her name. I remember because she always sat on the desk at the front of the classroom and I sat in the front row. I mistakenly always wanted to call her Lilith. You know, like Frasier’s wife (ex-wife) from “Cheers” and “Frasier”? 

Anyway, she finally said to me, “Annie, you need to write your papers like you’re writing a letter.”

I said, “What?” I mean, what happened to the bing, bang, bongo format?  I seem to remember learning that in fifth grade. Introduction, three main parts, and then a conclusion. Bing. Bang. Bongo.

“You need to just start writing and don’t stop until you’re done,” Professor Smith said. “Don’t even start a new paragraph. Don’t edit it. Just write it and submit it.” 

I later found out that I wrote, thought, and spoke just like Lorelai Gilmore on “Gilmore Girls.” My thoughts hop-scotched, to me, naturally from one spot to another. If I tried to formalize the thoughts in some sort of restricted and legitimized writing format, it didn’t make sense. Oh, and I also like coffee just as much as she does. 

“What?” I said.  

“Just write it like you were talking, without a filter.”

“Wow,” I think I said, or I thought I said.

Anyway, I was a sophomore, I think, and for the first time in my life, someone with the power to decide my success decided with me, and not against me. She recognized that I had something to say, and to let me say it, even if it meant allowing me to choose my delivery. 

Lesson learned then is a lesson learned now and every day that I think many of us struggle.

Happiness isn’t about changing who we are or becoming who someone else wants us to be, it’s about being able to be exactly who we are, when we want to, and how we want to.  No disguise. No disappointments. 

So, a few years later when a news anchor said, “I don’t understand what this says,” I knew she was wrong.

I said, “let me see that.” I grabbed the script from her hands and I read it aloud.

“Oh,” she said. 

There were no more words.

I finally made sense. 

____

Question: What makes you happy? When do you feel most understood? Have you ever tried to change who you are to make sense to other people? Did it work? Let me know!

Don't Wait Until the Line Goes Dead

Knock, knock.

Who’s there?

Pick up.

Pick up who?

Pick up the phone, damn it! 

A doorbell sounds off in the background.

Or, maybe it was the sound of a honking horn. Or, maybe a knock at the door.

There is a ringing of sorts.

It’s also the ripping and rippling sound of opening something...

It’s Christmas morning, you might think. Tearing open presents?

Nope. 

It’s a party in the parking lot, and car alarms are going off? 

Nope. It’s not that either.

Then, what is it? Some people might wonder. 

It’s communication. 

Courtesy Bluntcard.com

Consider me old-fashioned, or group me in with the pair of Grumpy Old Men types that I saw while getting my car fixed the other day. Although, I think after I tell you what the conversation went sounded like, you might agree with me. That is, unless, you’ve already closed this window and logged onto Facebook, or responded to a text, or ignored a text... (And yes, I'm just as guilty of this as everyone else). 

“He got rid of the woman who was going to bury him into the ground,” said a a Grumpy Old Man at the place I went to get my car worked on. 

“You have to do that!” said the other. 

“We have to be careful, we’re going to hurt this young lady’s feelings,” said the third. 

No, I’m fine, I thought. “It goes both ways,” I said aloud. “I don’t care if you’re a man or a woman, or if it’s a spouse or a friend, we all have one that might bury us into the ground.” 

“What does that mean,” said Grumpy Old Man Number 2. 

Gee, what did I mean? I honestly wasn’t even sure. So, I looked up at Grumpy Old Man Number 1 and he said, “It’s about communication.”

Bingo! Another hot pan came flying at my face. Figuratively, of course. So, I said, without second thought, “Why is it so hard to pick up the phone and call someone? How come we have to text answers to questions that deserve more thought?" 

Grumpy Old Man Number 2 looked at me and said, “The only thing you can do is turn off your phone.” 

WHAT? Seriously. How on Earth would anyone, in this day in age, survive by turning off their phone?

Just then, a young man, close to my age, came into the shop. After going through the few mandatory steps of dropping the car off for work, the man behind the counter, Grumpy Old Man Number 3, asked for a cell phone number.

“I don’t have one,” said the Young Man Without A Cell Phone. Grumpy Old Man Number 3 looked baffled, and I, on the inside thought, I bet he doesn’t have a single distraction and anyone who actually wants to know him knows how to get a hold of him. 

The conversation with the Grumpy Old Men continued for a while after the Young Man Without a Cell Phone left. At one point, I looked down at my own cell phone and wondered, “Who is going to call me?” 

Someone, maybe. Someone other than the hairstylist. Someone other than the pharmacy telling me that my prescription is ready. Someone other than my Mom who calls most of the time anyway. Who knows, maybe I'll call you. 

Pick up the phone, damn it. Don’t wait until the line goes dead.  


UPDATED March 13, 2011: I couldn't help but notice that I listened to Madonna's, "Hung Up," shortly after posting this. It's kind of relevant, isn't it?