Adventure in Leap Day

As you know Leap Day happens once every four years. As you also know it is the day that Leap Day William comes out of the Mariana Trench to trade all of the children’s tears for candy. And if you don’t wear blue and yellow you get your eyes poked and your hair pulled. Oh, you didn’t know the last two? You probably don’t watch enough “30 Rock” then.

The philosophy of Leap Day is nothing you do counts. It’s not a real day. “Real life is for March!” Today even the weather has refused to go about its usual business. The weather is all “Still February? It’s supposed to be March right now. I’ll do what I want!” So it’s 69 degrees outside and mad sunny. So we’re clear it is still February. More like Fakeuary.

I dressed like this.

I once again looked like a cartoon character. Specifically I felt like I was supposed to be on Doug, but I don’t regret it. I ate a hamburger.

I had a dream last night that I aced an audition. Big crazy audition. There was a stage, and I belted some serious notes, which I absolutely can’t do. But it did make me really want to audition. All I could think about all day was if I knew where an audition was I’d go. I don’t even really want to be in a show, I just really want to audition. I imagine I’m glutton for punishment. Or at least ridicule.

This Face

I don’t regret this face at all. I don’t regret tweeting it to “30 Rock.” I regret only one thing about this picture. I regret that you can’t see that my skirt is the mullet of skirts. Knee-length in the front, mid-calf-length in the back. I’m sorry you can’t see that.

I don’t have much to say about Leap Day. Not really, except that it makes me wish I was ballsier. To go out and do outrageous things I’ve never done before or wouldn’t ordinarily do. As it is, I’m not. I used to be, but I’m not anymore. I don’t know when that happened, but I suppose without any sort of audience in front of me I have no reason to be weird. I’m just regular weird. I should have lots of cats weird. Not Hayley’s playing floor is lava in the middle of this restaurant weird. Maybe some day I’ll get back to that. Or better, some combination there in the middle. A nice balance. Some day.

In the meantime, my big crazy thing of the day.

Shamrock Shake

I was just saying yesterday I’ve never had a Shamrock Shake, and I had no real desire to have one. Today I remembered it didn’t matter if I had one. So had one I did. My first only Shamrock Shake. That crap’s sick. PASS.

As Jack Donaghy says, “Leap Day is not a day to work, it’s a day to live! To celebrate!” So get on with it! Real life is for March.


Adventure in Venturing out

Today I made myself go to the Indianapolis Museum of Art. It was the second step of making myself be better at doing things alone. I was going to go a few weeks ago, but I went home instead, which was sort of the opposite. I woke up naturally, which was even a little later than usual. I got dressed. I took my time. About 12:30 I left.

I parked and walked in to find parents and children bouncing on big red balls. I went up the escalator to the desk. The lady handed me a map and told me she liked my hair. I walked in to see a wall covered in paint. Geometric colors everywhere. At the suggestion of my boss I went to the third floor first. I’m very glad I did. I walked around for a while, and then I found it. I found a room filled with colored wires and tiny speakers. I could hear it a little but moms and children kept coming in and getting mad at the noise. And then at each other for talking over the noise. So I did the rest of the museum. I explored the house built into the museum. I cried in front of van Gogh with no shame. And I went back upstairs.

It was like choosing to be haunted. Voices surrounded me. Not in a spooky way, but still in a haunting way. If it filled my life it wouldn’t overwhelm, but rather calm. Silence through so much noise. Peace through so much chaos. Sweeping across the room. Like being alone in a crowd without the feeling of loneliness, which may have come from the echoing chorus of “I love you,” over the speakers.

It did cross a line in my brain of uncertainty. What was heard and were my own thoughts? Did the speakers say, “I can’t take it back,” or did I think it? The fading line of sanity and insanity. And yet, still nothing overwhelms my brain. I am at peace. I am safe. This is safe. Solitude while surrounded by so many. Was there a draft causing the speakers to move or was it my imagination? I could have stayed in that room all day. All the noise makes all the silence so very precious.

The piece was called “Terrain” by Julianne Swartz. It was originally in the lobby of the museum, but I think it’s more powerful in the single, secluded room where it doesn’t blend in with the noise of the day.

Adventure in Real women…

“Real women have curves.” “Real women have careers.” “Real women don’t need men.” There are lots of things shouted at us in all sorts of places. I’ll try to be brief.

Yes. Some women have curves. You know what’s interesting though? Some women don’t. Some women have careers. C.S. Lewis said, “The homemaker has the ultimate career. All other careers exist for one purpose only – and that is to support the ultimate career.” Some women don’t need men. That doesn’t mean women can’t want to have a man around. I’m all in favor of shaking up the norm. Especially for women. It’s why I volunteer with Girls Inc. I don’t want the next generation growing up hating themselves because society says they’re living their lives incorrectly.

Just yesterday we talked with the girls about stereotypes. “All girls like pink.” “All girls are obsessed with boys.” “All girls hate sports.” If you say these things to the girls in my class they get pretty mad, but you know what? Some girls do like pink. Some girls are obsessed with boys. Some girls hate sports.

Just because one stereotype is negative doesn’t mean one that you believe to be positive is a positive for everyone. Telling a flat chested stick of a thing that real women have curves tells that girl she’s not a real woman. Telling a housewife real women have careers tells her she isn’s a real woman. Telling an infertile woman she’s not fulfilled her role as a woman until she’s had children tells her she’s never going to be good enough. We’re different. Every last one of us.

And yes, I hate the way clothes are sized for women. It’s been stirring in my head since puberty. A size 8 pants and an extra-large shirt?! It doesn’t make sense. Especially when that extra-large shirt only accommodates my boobs, and makes the rest of me look pregnant. Men’s clothes are sized by nearly every measurement, but women are a number. Get up in arms about that. But don’t go around telling other women what real women are like, because she’s probably not exactly like you. Real women are just that. Real and women. Don’t make it harder on anyone than it already is.

Adventure in Brief self-discovery

Things are about to get honest. Things are about to get personal. Things are about to get rambly.

In my now almost 9 months of what is the closest to isolation I’ve ever been in I have learned much about myself. Some of it good. Some of it bad. Some of it kind of gross. Some of it helpful. Some of it interesting. Maybe somewhere down the line it will all be useful, but for now it’s what I know and what I have.

I watch a lot of movies. Especially on my own. It’s the company of the noise. I fear the silence of my apartment. If the TV isn’t on than music is. If neither of those are on I’m probably in the shower. If I’m in the shower I’m probably singing. If I’m not in the shower I’m in the bath. If I’m in the bath I’m reading, out loud. If I’m reading outside the bathtub, I’m reading out loud. I fear silence. I don’t want it. Silence let’s my brain get carried away. And even if I’m not reading or watching TV or singing or listening to music, I am processing. Out loud. I’m not necessarily a verbal processor, until recently I would say that all comes through a pen somewhere, or a keyboard, but as of late it comes right out of my mouth. I talk everything out with me.

I could stand to lose 20 pounds, but I’d like to lose 40. Because I’m vain. I rarely leave the apartment with my hair in shambles. If it is in shambles I’m going three buildings over to the Edingers to watch “30 Rock.” I put on jeans to run to the store. If I’m not wearing makeup, I’m wearing glasses I don’t need. They cover up my face, which I’m as ashamed of as the rest of my body if it isn’t clothed.

I’m hyper observant. Not in a Shawn Spencer on “Psych” sort of way, but I guess some times even that. Maybe it’s from all that TV I watch, but I’ve started picking up people’s stranger nuances. The ones they are least proud of or most unaware of. The ones that tell me when they’re lying, even if they’re telling me some of the truth. It affects me too. I’ve become hyper observant about all of my tendencies. As evidenced by what you are presently reading.

I rely heavily on the approval of others. I’m so pleased with myself when someone retweets me or favorites one of my tweets or likes a blog post or if my blog stats are going up. The person can increase or decrease that excitement. I feel better about my work at Girls Inc. when someone is around to tell me it’s worth it or that I’m doing a good job.

I let my insecurities come out in ways that don’t necessarily show. If I’m uncomfortable my humor increases, which somehow only makes me more amiable to other people when really I’m trying to fend them off. I chew at my hands. I fuss with my bangs. I put my hair up and take it down. My eyes dart.

I have a harder time focusing in social situations now. I wasn’t too great at it to begin with, but now I have a hard time really listening to people unless I get a transcript too. My brain is distracted, because I’m a selfish person. Because I’m not listening. Because I’m lying. I lie a lot. Mostly by omission. Or half-truths. This is the truth, but it’s also not really the truth. Somewhere in there is truth, but somewhere in that is a lie.

I get bored easily. I shower when I get bored. I clean and then make a mess again. I don’t put all the dishes away and then put them all around the apartment. But I do clean up the living room and then get out paints and spread them out everywhere. Only to leave them out for the next three weeks. Because who does it bother except me? And I’m sure not going to say anything, because I’m also non-confrontational. Not on my own behalf. I’m more inclined to say something to someone on the behalf of someone else than I am to ever stand up for myself. And when someone does approach me I back down. I back down hard.

I don’t know if I’m getting better or worse. I’m only getting more cognizant.

Adventure in More voices

Alright just three more people I would like to always be talking around me because their voices are so great, and I don’t really have a reason why. I’ll just leave it at that.

Seth Rogen

Anton Yelchin

Ryan Gosling. That’s right. Ryan Gosling. I wouldn’t even have to look at him. He could just phone that in, and I’d still be okay.

Adventure in Surprises

Yesterday my phone Moritz, a 6-month-old Palm Pre 2, rendered himself completely useless as anything more than essentially this. As it sadly is not 2003 I found this unacceptable. Especially since when I called Verizon to get help my call was dropped several times because, well, my phone was no longer a phone. It didn’t internet. It only texted. It didn’t even take pictures of my sad face.

Today on my lunch break I drove up to the Verizon store to have the situation rectified. The options were upgrade with my Nana’s upgrade or wait a few days for another Palm Pre 2 to come in. I chose to upgrade, because what’s the point of a getting the same phone if it will just play the same game again in 6 months? So Donald walked me around the store. Convinced me to get a Droid Thunderbolt for a mere $100, which was the cheapest thing in the store. After I had been convinced, mostly by my blind rage in needing this situation fixed, he went to the back room to get the phone. He came back out with a black iphone 4 and a white iphone 4 in hand. They did not have the Thunderbolt in stock, which I am now glad of because every time I type “Thunderbolt” I hate myself a little more. So I took the white one.

We got it all set up and I promptly left with my shiny new iphone. I called my mom and told her what happened. We had a good laugh on my phone that now functions as a phone.

On my way back to work I got this text, “This is Donald from Verizon…i hope this isnt too forward or weird but would you mind if I called or text you sometime??” I don’t know what the law is, but I’m going to guess that at the very least Verizon’s customer relations policy would frown against such behavior. I imagine though it’s actually outright not allowed. So far my response has been radio silence.

I imagine my response will continue to be radio silence, unless I make up a very elaborate boyfriend, but then I’m afraid I’ll get too attached to my new fake boyfriend. We’ll have pancake lunches and nights out to Ponderosa and before I know it we’ll be engaged. No. That’s just too much too fast. I’m not ready for that.

He’s probably a nice guy, but the creep factor is too much.

Adventure in Bridesmaids

I watched Bridesmaids when it came out. People raved. It was hilarious. I didn’t think it was funny. I decided to give it a second chance today. Guess what. It’s not funny. In fact, I’ve been sobbing since I turned it on. It has these little bits in it. The food poisoning. The plane. The butt-biting.

But the movie completely neglects the biggest opportunity to laugh. Life is hard. Kristen Wiig’s character’s life is hard. Comedy is meant to laugh at those things. It’s why I respect Joan Rivers. But Kristen Wiig has chosen to let the whole premise of the movie to actually be dreadfully sad, and the script doesn’t once laugh at her situation. People want the opportunity to laugh at life’s pains. And the movie only made me sad. Laugh at her fear of baking. Make a joke of her getting kicked out of her apartment. Don’t make it sad.

I’m going to say it. The Holiday is a better comedy.

Bridesmaids is a bunch of bits in the middle of a tragedy. It’s bits staggered throughout the storyline of Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, but only the part of the story about the little girl with cancer. Only that little girl was funnier.

Adventure in Aaaaall That

Last night I had the most wonderful opportunity to go to a taping of Late Night with Jimmy Fallon. Let me start by saying there really isn’t anyone on the TV as adorable as Jimmy Fallon. He’s not remarkably funny, but he does clearly love his job. That’s a beautiful thing to see. I will give him a strong kudos for his songs and parodies. His impersonations are also some of my favorites. Mostly I think he’s precious. People complain about Jimmy Fallon falling out of character and laughing, but I think that’s why I love him. Not because it’s so notably funny when someone breaks character, because it’s not. It’s because that’s just how you know how much he’s loving his job. Who doesn’t want someone around who constantly makes you feel hilarious? It’s something I constantly want in my life.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. My secret(ish) ambition in life is to work in comedy in some capacity. Or to use comedy in my daily life for more than my own entertainment. I used to think that meant it had to be through Saturday Night Live, but while that’d be nice and all I know I’m not that talented. I do, however, know that what I loved growing up was getting comedy for my brain. I was raised on the Muppets, and I’d say that was my introduction to comedy. I grew up watching “All That.” Likely my second introduction to comedy. Mild, kind of funny comedy. “All That” turned into “Monty Python’s Flying Circus” and “Saturday Night Live.” That turned into listening to stand-up comedians. And now it’s just me and my brain. My poor brain.

I think though the things that really stuck with me are vaguely in that “All That” vein. Not on purpose. I have visions of giant ice cream sandwiches graduating college. Honors. That’s not normal, but it’s also something I can imagine being on “All That.” Maybe it’s because I think penis jokes are too easy, so I don’t think they’re that funny. That’s not fair. They are funny, but they don’t require any real effort. It’s just an easy laugh. Anyone can make a penis joke. I mean, that’s what’s great about the Muppets. They managed to be funny without ever having to stoop that low. I mean puppets can get away with a lot more than people, but the Muppets didn’t have to make those low-brow choices. Respect.

Statler and Waldorf taught me about heckling. Kermit taught me about the straight man. Gonzo taught me about making gutsy and embarrassing choices. Fozzi taught me to keep trying. Rowlf taught me about sarcasm. Scooter taught me about puns.

I guess what it all made me realize is that I wish there was still a comedy option suitable for kids. Not that the Muppets are suddenly unsuitable, but I would like to see something current too. And I’d like to believe that kids still cared about the Muppets. They mostly don’t. Which is sad, but that’s a different issue.

For those of you questioning my funnier side, as this blog tends to be less that, I’d like to direct your attention to The Drugged Librarian. I promise I’m funny.