On jobs, saying no

Today I said no to a potential job opportunity.  This goes against almost all that I am as a person.  I’m a ‘yes’-sayer.  I’m that annoying person who says, “I want to learn everything” and actually means it.  And then realizes six months down the line that she’s been conned into uploading ten years of data onto an Excel spreadsheet because no one else wanted to and ‘everything’ evidently means ‘crap’.

Yes, it’s a personal flaw.  I am easy to take advantage of.  Even for really, really nice people.  Lest you think I’m self-martyring, it’s no one’s fault but my own.  I invite it.  If someone groans about paperwork, I actually offer to help out.  And once I’m in on a project, I find it almost impossible to extricate myself.  So when ten pages becomes eighty?  Well, I said yes.  So how can I say no now?  I’ll tell you how.  By saying no.  Or saying wait.  It’s a new concept.  I now normally say, “hey, just give me ten minutes to think it over.”  Because given even five seconds of time to pause, think through my day, and actually decide if it’s something that I want to do–then I can say ‘no’ much more easily.  It’s like a deer-caught-in-headlights syndrome.  Catch me unawares, and I’ll immediately hop to.  Want me to jump off a cliff?  Just ask me when I’m not expecting it.  But give me time to see the cliff…and like any normal, self-respecting human being, I’ll avoid it.

So, here’s the thing.  I’ve been working part-time for a few months.  Without getting into the boring details of it, things haven’t quite worked out as expected.  So I need a full-time job.  And I’ve been actively interviewing for a while now.  So saying no to this one…well, it hurt almost as much as being told I didn’t get the position.  Instead of a door being slammed in my face, I closed it.  And then I ordered myself a milkshake from the diner next door.  Chocolate is my ally in times of crisis.  Salad is my ally in times of peace.  We’ve got a system.  Anyway, why did I say no?  A lot of reasons, but largely a gut instinct.  And I might end up temping for a while, and I might end up having a few more chocolate shakes on my journey toward full financial security (ramen is getting old, but I’m getting clever in ways to cook it).  And ultimately, sometimes you have to hold on to your power and trust yourself.  It’s what helps you sleep at night.

On depression, tiny tendrils

You’ll forgive me if I occasionally use this blog as a therapeutic tool.  It’s an instinct I try to suppress–life doesn’t always make good art, you see.  And pain, like a song without a good hook, is, let’s be honest, boring.  That’s why when everyone asks, “how are you today?” the only acceptable answer is, “fine.”  You can utter an occasional, “oh, a little tired” as long as you pair it with a smile and a commiserating shrug as if to say, “aren’t we all a little tired?”.  If you are a generally happy person, you can earn yourself the right to feel sad and talk about it–but only once every six or seven months.  Think of it like a point system.  Every three hundred points or so, you earn yourself a little negative time.

I’m a big believer in the ‘fake it ’til you make it’ philosophy.  Not feeling happy?  Smile anyway.  You’ve been hired to do a job you have no idea how to execute?  Say, “No problem, of course I’ve done this before.”  Then Google the hell out of it.  I recently read a quote from comedian Steve Wright, “depression is merely anger without enthusiasm.”  Because I am worried about being politically correct, I’ll change it to this: “depression [which is not directly related to a chemical imbalance in the brain] is merely anger without enthusiasm.”  Been turned down two, eight, fifteen, a hundred times?  Do something about it.  Or wallow in misery.  Trust me, I’ve been there–hell, I am there.  Do something about it.

On sea monsters and other wordplay

Ghosts, Nessie, Sea Monsters, Manifest Destiny (hey, it relates).  There is something within human nature that makes us yearn for the unexplored.  And even in this age, with all our satellites and x-rays and telescopes, we still crave the ever deeper, ever further knowledge of what we can’t quite grasp.  We may know more than ever, but what we don’t know–that is what is irresistible.

Recently, something washed ashore in South Carolina (see: http://www.theblaze.com/stories/what-is-the-monster-like-creature-that-washed-up-on-this-s-carolina-beach/).  Pretty sea-monster looking, right?  Wrong!  It is simply a large sturgeon. What about a crocodile?  Scales, teeth, creepy eyes that stick out of the water.  Sounds like a sea monster to me.  Wrong again.  Or a shark.  It can eat you.  It can eat you. But it is not a sea monster.  What really seems to be the determination of monster vs. normal in-nature occurrence is whether or not it is named, classified, and documented.  I get the feeling that if ghosts were somehow proven to be in existence, they would be given a name like, “translucentia458”, and would forevermore be considered totally ordinary.  Sort of weird, like deep-sea fish, but no longer mysterious and awesome.  I put it in the same category as that advice, “don’t meet your heroes.”  Because it makes them human–they may curse or spit or be rude.  And no matter how much you respect them, you can’t help but be just a little disappointed.

On insomnia, what to do

Oh, sleepless nights.  Call us night-owls, call us dark creatures of the dark.  We look longingly toward the bed:

Oh, hello, Bear.  Are you calling us to sleep?  It shan’t work, Bear.  We are too busy staring at the ceiling and watching the fan cast shadows on the wall.  We are too busy looking at the clock and counting the minutes toward sunrise.  *four hours, three minutes, eight seconds*  But tomorrow won’t suffer, right?  Who needs more than four hours, two minutes, and thirty-two seconds of sleep?  Right?  Bear?

On sandwiches, Cheeky

I’ve been (fairly, kind of, maybe) hush hush about my location in the world.  But some context clues–subways, tourists, my constant references to walking instead of driving–may have narrowed down the search.  And I am now officially breaking the silence in order to sing the praises of Cheeky’s Sandwiches, located in the Lower East Side of Manhattan.

Guys.  Gals.  Sirs and Madams.  This place is hardly a secret (yelp has 100 mostly rave reviews), but it feels that way, like you’re discovering something all your own.  Walk downtown along Orchard Street, and you may miss it–there’s no sign overhead, just a whitewashed door frame and, free-drawn into the cement of the sidewalk, a face and the name: ‘Cheeky’s Sandwiches’.  Good thing us New Yorkers normally look down when we walk–the better to avoid eye contact.

Cheeky’s has a New Orleans flare (they serve Cafe Du Monde coffee), and the long narrow space of the seating area makes everything feel more intimate.  Even better, the guys behind the counter are nice.  And listen, I’m not buying into the whole, “New York service is horrible, hurried, and rude” stereotype.  Many places have great service and attentive staff.  But in this place, they are happy.  So happy, in fact, that they make me want to chat, and I am not a chatter.  The menu is small, a selection of sandwiches that range from chicken to pork to veggie to shrimp and oyster po-boy.  But picking a favorite is tough. Today, though, I went for the chicken sandwich: think deliciously fried chicken on a buttermilk biscuit with gravy and slaw; it’s just the right kind of messy.  For your delight, below is a photo of it’s awesome goodness.  Go.  You won’t regret it.

Cheeky’s address: 35 Orchard Street

On St. Patrick’s Day, How to Survive

A few tips to survive St. Patrick’s Day.  Especially if it falls on a weekend.

If you are going out–know that everyone will be drinking early and drinking hard.  A bar that normally has a light crowd will be packed.  Plan accordingly.  Wear clothes that you don’t mind getting beer spilled all over, because it will happen.

If you are a girl–wear green.  Partly for fun, partly because why not, but mainly to avoid giving someone an excuse to pinch you.

If you are at a parade–have an exit strategy.  If all else fails, clutch your stomach, groan, and say, “let me out, let me out, I’m going to throw up.”  The crowd will part for you like the red sea.   And, see above, no one will question you even if it’s 11am–because people started drinking at 8.  Kegs and eggs anyone?

And finally, brush up on your St. Patrick’s Day facts.  Because there’s nothing more a group of revelers wants to hear than a full history lesson about green, clovers, leprechauns, and Ireland.

On Procrastination, When It’s Okay

Ah, procrastination.  A wild and hairy beast that bucks and growls at even the mere mention of a future task.  Need to write a paper?  I bet there’s a new music video on YouTube.  Need to call that client and tell him it will be another three weeks before he is paid?  I bet there’s a lolcat that needs immediate attention.  Besides, they say humor is healthy, right?

A few facts that make life more fun:
1. Taking breaks actually increases productivity (see: http://www.retailwire.com/discussion/15515/take-a-break-to-increase-productivity).
2. Best of all, naps also increase productivity (see:  http://stress.about.com/od/lowstresslifestyle/a/powernap.htm)

Awesome, right?  Throw me a blankie and a juice box, and I can pretend to have no responsibilities at all!

I like to think of procrastination the same way I think about addiction.  Example: if you have a few drinks on occasion, but are living/working/eating/sleeping properly–you don’t have a problem.

If your room is dirty, but you can officially label yourself not-a-hoarder–you don’t have a problem.

If you haven’t left the apartment in two days because there is a Project Runway marathon on TV–you don’t have a problem, but you might need to take a Vitamin D supplement.

So give a toast to procrastination.  Drink that glass of wine, watch that Discovery Channel special on glaciers, and finish what you started tomorrow.  Or maybe the day after that.

On yoga, bikram; or, On torture, acceptable kinds

I should admit something.  I don’t do that well in extreme temperatures.  It’s not that I immediately seize up and faint–I was a camp counselor for several summers, and ran around for months in temperatures well into the 90s and 100s.  But I have to be prepared with lots of water and a gradually increased tolerance. I really should train for summer the way some people train for triathlons.

So I have no idea why I thought Bikram Yoga would be a good idea.  I’d been to regular yoga a few times and felt about it the way I feel about most salads.  Probably good for me, but a bit boring.  But, mainly because I have an aversion to the word ‘no’, I agreed to try out this new Bikram craze with a friend of mine.

The first thing I am told when we enter the gates of hell yoga studio, is that feeling dizzy and like I might pass out is “totally normal.”  Awesome.  Totally allays my fears.

The second thing I am told is that most people hate their first Bikram experience.  To quit after one go is a total cop-out.  And second, if I quit, I will never get to experience the rapture and wonder that all Bikram-goers apparently experience daily.  In other words, total guilt trip.

And we begin.  I have done enough yoga to know most basic moves, but not enough to look like I really know what I’m doing.  And with the heat, I might as well have never done it at all.  And sure enough, twenty minutes into the class, my vision totally blacks out, and all I hear is my pulse thumping in my ears.  I am immediately called out by the instructor.  “Girl in back, you’re about to pass out, sit down!”  Having never passed out before, I’m a little surprised.  But considering I cannot see, I’m assuming ‘girl in back’ refers to me.  So I sit.  And sweat.  And sit.  And when my vision comes back, I look at the rented yoga mat below me and think, “what or who has possessed me to ever think this was fun?”

I will say this; after the feeling of passing out faded, I was able to stand back up and continue the class.  And after the 90 minutes were over, I did feel fantastic.  But 30 minutes of endorphins didn’t quite make up for 90 minutes of pure misery.  And I felt the same relaxed endorphin rush after trying out the hot baths in Hot Springs, AR.  And that was after soaking in a hot tub, having towels wrapped around me, and lying in a room that sounded like rain.  Yes, I think I’ll go for the second experience.

On nerds, big ones

Being a nerd nowadays–nowadays being after high school and college–is not really a big deal.  You have your friends, you do your thing, and who really cares how some stranger on the street sees you?  But school can be a little different.

Socially, I flew pretty under the radar in the high school.  Or, at least, as under as you can fly in a class of fifty.  I had a wonderful group of friends, and we’ve all stayed close.  I was just enough into things like Harry Potter (midnight showings, y’all!) to avoid extreme popularity, but I never quite crossed the threshold into off-putting (I never learned Elvish, for instance, or dressed up as Hermione for Halloween–the latter, though, I probably thought about).

But when I really think about it, this is something I’ve tended to do throughout my life.  That sort of middle-road, tempered kind of excitement.  And I think there’s something brave about people who throw their entire selves into something without thinking of or caring about any sort of backlash.  By this, I mean the people who spend a week camped out to get that ticket, who follow a band around the country (preferably without sleeping with the lead singer, but whatever works), who go to conferences and gatherings of people with like-minded obsession.  So, from now on, I’m going to try to be more nerd-like–I’ve got a hunch that they’re the ones on the right track.

On voices, tiny tiny ones

I face several problems in bars.  One is that I place my personality in the “slow burn” category, at least among large groups of people I have not met before.  I don’t make much of a first impression, and my sense of humor largely doesn’t come out until around the third meeting (barfolk, typically, are only met once).  I grow on people.  I am not the life of the party. 

A main factor that contributes to this is one I have no control over.  In fact, I’d like for it to be studied scientifically.  I do not whisper or particularly sound meek in normal everyday sun-is-out settings.  I used to be a cheerleader.  I know how to speak from the diaphragm and can yell with the best of them.  But in bars, whether it’s the music, or the ton of people talking, no one can hear me.  No one.  Even getting my name across is a real struggle.

So I do what anyone would do–learn to mime absolutely everything that could need to be said in a bar-setting.  Feel free to pick up some tips.
“Music” or “I love this song” = *point to the ceiling, my ear, then smile*
“Wanna dance?”=*just start dancing*
“Want another drink?”=*point to the bar and shrug*
“I’m about to leave”=*point to my watch and then the door*
“Are you sure you want to go home with him?”=*a grab of the arm, head gesture to the man in question, and then raised eyebrows* [not a popular mime]
“Oh no, please don’t drunk-cry tonight”=*no mime, just desperation*