Weekly Goals

So I have another blog post almost ready to go that features disgusting bodily processes and also a toot of my own half-marathon horn (WHADDUP, TAKING SIX MINUTES OFF MY PREVIOUS TIME BRINGING MY PR TO UNDER TWO HOURS?!) but first, it seems that one of my brilliant ideas is about to go viral so I'd like to take some credit where credit is due.

A couple of years ago, a group of us (including Legs and Joel) started a weekly email circulating. It usually went out on Mondays, and contained our goal for that week. It started out because some of us (mainly me) had found ourselves (myself) in a bit of a funk and needed to find ways to make life just a little bit better. And sometimes, just doing one small thing, getting one tiny victory, can change your outlook on a whole lot of bigger things that you feel like you can't control.

The idea was simple: pick something, anything, that's totally do-able, and DO IT. You're telling everyone on the email list that you intend to do this thing in this given period of time. There are no consequences for failing to make your weekly goal, except the sheepishness of having to tell x number of people on the thread that you suck at life. Which is pretty good motivation right there.

The goals ranged from "make my bed every morning" to "eating vegetarian all week." They were intangible ("be optimistic") and tangible ("work out for 45 minutes per day"); simple ("tell one person each day that I love him/her") and complex ("clean out my closet: donate clothes I no longer wear, reorganize my shoes, put away winter clothes, etc.").

Lemme tell you, even an accomplishment as small as just making your bed everyday can feel like a victory when you get to report, a week later, that you did it.

Recently, a friend of mine has been in a bit of a funk and so we decided to resurrect this practice. We are back on the weekly goals email and it's actually kind of exciting. Even though most of us are in far better places in our lives, I've found there's always room to say, "What can I do this week that will make my life look/feel/act better?"

For example: this week it was going to the post office. I frigging hate the post office. Joel has a joke, his "one Libertarian joke," as he refers to it:
Guy goes to the store the week before Christmas to buy his mother a gift. The store is mobbed, the lines are long. He finds a gift, waits in line, finally gets to the register, and says to the sales associate, "Wow, you guys are busy!" The sales associate says, "I know, it's been our best week ever!" Guy then goes to the post office to mail the gift.The post office is mobbed, the lines are long. He waits in line, finally gets to the front, and says to the postal worker, "Wow, you guys are busy!" The postal worker grumbles, "I know, worst week ever."

Ha.Thanks, Joel.

So I went to the post office to mail off some stuff that had been sitting around my room, just waiting to be mailed, and let me tell you what a relief it was. Just this one act - this one chore crossed off my list made me feel like I could take on the world. Vacuum my room? DONE! Dust my shoe rack? FINITO. The completion of one annoying, nagging chore can open gateways to cleaning up other areas of your life.

Or it can be a goal like: drink more water. Don't even get me started on health benefits of being well-hydrated, whether you're a runner or not.

I know, aren't I just a bastion of fun these days, all well-hydrated and going to the post office. Fear not, Glitteratis; April and May are already booked to the hilt with batshit crazy fun, including a baby shower, a Broadway play, two weddings, some family events, and (LET US NOT FORGET) my impending #dirtythirty birthday.

But anyway, I just wanted to take full credit for my awesome Weekly Email Update idea before Kid and Lee went off running and making money off of my brilliance.

Next post will be about how I puked again after last weekend's (otherwise totally awesome) half marathon. I know you're excited.

Happy Birthday

My mom's 60th birthday party was last night, and the affair was delicious, well-attended, and punch-y. Specifically, Fish House Punch-y. My aunt discovered that this Mad Men-era drink debuted in 1951, the year my mother was born. And, lemme tell you, while I am not a punch person per say; having abandoned all want for drinking large batches of sticky-sweet libations after an ill-fated jungle juice experience in college; this drink is nothing short of delicious. None too sweet, and lacking the cloying factor of most punches, this drink lives up to its name with the punch it packs.

The party was fantastic, and it was great to see so many people turn out to celebrate my mom's milestone birthday. Lots of family and old friends. A time for remembering the past and being thankful for birthdays; in her remarks right before she cut the cake, my mom said that while she can't believe she's turning 60, she's thankful for every birthday she's ever had because, hey, it beats the alternative.

Does it ever. My dad turned 60 two years ago in the midst of Snowmageddon, my mom is now entering this new decade, and I remember that I'm about six months away from leaving my twenties behind. I've had a number of friends already cross the threshold to the dirty thirty, and the process has seemed to afford mixed reviews. Some take it in stride, figuring nothing's really changed from 29 to 30 except what you punch into the treadmill at the gym. Some feel weighed down by the passing of time, perhaps even a few regrets about how that time might have been spent. But, for the most part, I think turning 30 is vastly different from turning 60, mostly because you're not yet realizing that the alternative becomes more and more apparent as you get older.

Turning 30 is fraught with social obligations and expectations, and a time to take stock of what your adult life is really going to look like. But turning 60 has afforded years of experience, and with that experience comes loss. Turning 60 is a time of gratitude and enjoyment, even if it's coupled with a little bit of disbelief. I think there's a learning experience in that.

I've never had any problems with my age, but I'll admit that I have some trepidation about 30. It just feels big. But my mom reminds me that it doesn't have to be - and isn't - bad. Change is good. And, quite frankly, there's a lot of things I'm not too upset to leave behind with my twenties.

Instead of focusing on what I don't have, or what hasn't happened, I think there's an opportunity here to celebrate, and to wish for the vain and spectacular hope that there will be many more big milestone birthdays to celebrate. Because how fantastic would it be to be 60, surrounded by family and friends who love you, who are present, who are celebrating your life with you?

Happy Birthday, Mom. Your grace in turning 60 is something to which I aspire. And when you turn 70, and 80, and 90, I only hope that we make bigger and bigger batches of Fish House Punch to celebrate.

Zen Dentistry

I'm pretty sure I am the only person in the world who finds the dentist's chair a calming, Zen place to be.

I attribute this fact to my refined Welsh genes which gave me a slender nose, skin that freckles charmingly in the sun, and a mouthful of peasant horse teeth. My parents, to whom I am eternally grateful, nipped what could have been a snarling orthodontic nightmare early on. In my bank of very early memories, none of them exist without some form of orthodontia. Arch expanders, rubber bands, retainers, extractions, adjustments, cranks, braces, and all manner of plastic and metal hardware existed in my mouth at one point or another for the sole purpose of completely rearranging what nature intended to be overcrowded and chockablock. Eventually, the 18-point pile-up that might have occurred in the frontal region of my jaw was straightened and refined into the fetching smile I sport today. Thanks, Mom and Dad, for putting the orthodontist's kids through college!

But a secondary result of all of this tugging and straightening is that I feel quite at home parked back in a dentist's chair with people poking around in my mouth. I was pulled out of school on a monthly-and sometimes weekly, depending on the status of the hardware- basis for afternoon appointments that involved smocked technicians scratching and rummaging around in my face.

I had a dentist's appointment this week; the first in a long, long time. (Part of the deal of returning to the 9-5 workforce is what I now recognize as the luxury of health insurance that includes dental.) I mean, a LONG time. An amount of time that might make a dentist, say, suck in a mouthful of air in a dual reaction: "OhmyGodDISGUSTING" and "Ca-CHING; JACKPOT!"

Also because there had been a serious stretch of time since anyone had stuck pointy metal objects between my teeth, I think the dentist was under the impression that I had some sort of raging phobia about general dentistry and went quite out of his way to insure my comfort.

"Now, we're just going to do X-rays right now. JUST X-RAYS! This won't hurt AT ALL!" he assured me. I somehow made it through the horrifying and life-threatening procedure of photographing my teeth and was rewarded with a toothbrush. A PURPLE toothbrush! Because I am a brave little soldier.

I almost wonder if he was slightly disappointed that I was cavity-free. A perusal of my X-rays revealed a mouthful of strong, sturdy European choppers with five-foot long roots. (Which only furthered my somewhat pervasive fear that my teeth are, in fact, abnormally large and horsey.) No cavities! Good for you! You've been brushing your teeth sometimes! And maybe flossing on that one night a week you force yourself to go to bed at 10pm so you can get something close to 8 hours of sleep! Hooray, aces!

"I'm going to clean your teeth now," he said. Good. It was early in the AM and I had only had time for half a cup of coffee, so this meant I could settle back in the chair, open my mouth, close my eyes, and embark on a nice little snooze. No more questions to answer about my previous dental history. Have at it, good doctor, and wake me when you're done.

Except he seemed to be under the misapprehension that I was bordering on a giant freak-out.

"I'm just going to use the Water Pik," he explained. "This is NOT A DRILL! I promise!"

Ok, fine, use a fire hose for all I care. I'm closing my eyes now, mmmmkay? Night niiiiiiigghhht.........

"This won't hurt AT ALL," he went on. "It will make a sort of loud noise, but it's NOT GOING TO HURT!"

OK. I HEARD YOU. GO FOR IT.

"Are you ok?" he asked.

"Yep, just fine."

"You sure? This won't hurt," he said, again. At this point, I was starting to wonder if, perhaps, whatever he was planning to do was, in fact, going to hurt and this was his disclaimer ahead of time. Or something to convince me, mentally, that it WASN'T hurting, I only THOUGHT it was hurting. It couldn't possibly hurt because he told me so many times that it wouldn't! I was starting to doubt this, a tiny bit.

"I'm going to get started here in a second," he said. Awesome. Settle back. Eyes closey. Hands foldy. Sleepy sleepy time. I figured I could get in a good twenty minutes while he was scraping a few years' worth of artsy-I'm-only-waiting-tables-and-freelancing-until-my-book-deal-comes-through crud off of my newly-insured teeth before I had to get up and go to work.

It didn't hurt. At all. I was just dozing off when he stopped. "You still doing ok?"

Yes. I'm fine. My eyes are closed because I am sleeping. Not because I am trying to shut you-and, by proxy, this nightmarish situation in which you are squirting water onto my delicate, sensitive teeth- out of my mind. I am actually trying to doze off. Don't worry- I sleep with my mouth open all the time; this is no problem for me. Unattractive, perhaps, but utterly convenient for you.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.............

"Where did you say you went to school?"

I didn't. Say anything. Because I am TRYING TO TAKE A NAP! Now. Sleepy time.....

"All done!"

Wait, what? I barely closed my eyes!

"Now, that wasn't too bad, was it?"

Yes! Yes it was! I don't even think I actually fell asleep, I just got my eyes barely closed and you woke me up and now I'm awake again! I DID NOT GET A NAP. WHAT IS THE POINT OF THE DENTIST IF I AM NOT LEAVING WELL-RESTED?

"That's a difference now, huh?!"

Huh? What? I am cranky! You woke me from my nap! Actually, you did not wake me because I did not actually fall anything close to asleep, I barely even shut my---oh. Oh. OOoooooooohhhhhhhh.

My teeth are so..........slick. And my mouth is so.......minty fresh. It's actually quite...well, it's quite refreshing!

I left the dentist, swiping my tongue across my newly sparkling choppers, feeling the squeaky clean of a plaque-free mouth. And, to make up for my lack of nap, I rewarded myself with a triple shot skim latte.

So my mouth was clean for approximately seven minutes before I had coffee breath again.

Oh, well. Maybe if I'd gotten a nap....

Party Like It's 1999

I'm sitting on a sofa listening to Pearl Jam's Daughter, drinking beer out of a Solo cup. The girl next to me is wearing sunglasses inside at night. The girl on the other side of me has on the requisite flannel and Chucks. I've got rips in my tights expertly manipulated by my gay friend who utilized a fork for maximum effect. We are mired in how cool we are, at a house party with good music, dipping our hands into a bowl of Doritos and sucking the powdery orange cheese off of our fingertips which are stained red from earlier Jell-O shots. We are situated in the 1990's, when the epitome of cool was saying, casually, "Oh, I'm with the band." That is, of course, unless you were high school rock royalty fortunate enough to utter with chilling complexity, "I'm in the band."

And then my cell phone vibrates and it's a friend asking me if I picked up a card for the bridal shower I have to attend the next day. And I'm rocketed back into 2010, and it's not the 90s, but Eddie Vedder is still singing and the beer is still cold in my hand, and I suddenly remember that I'm 28 years old and that the relics of my teenage years have now reached a classic status worthy of being a House Party Theme. We are old enough to mock who we used to be, and how cool we thought we were.

But I remember. Old cars with duct tape on the cracked leather seats and someone jamming The Smiths into a tape deck. When diners were hangouts, and Goodwill had the best flannels. Late nights and frosty breath and watching the seniors sneak cigarettes out on the playing fields during breaks from drama rehearsals. When life was distilled down to the immediate necessity of saying the right thing at the right time, knowing the lyrics to the right songs, and having the right shoes. What, really, has changed?

Oh, you know...health insurance and retirement plans and memos and cars breaking down and mortgages and bridal showers and actually LOOKING like you're hungover instead of just feeling it. All of that. But sometimes I think we're all, deep down, just a bunch of fifteen-year-olds with our hands shoved into our pockets trying desperately to achieve that delicate balance of aloof and approachable, interested but sort of bored, non-nonchalant but vivacious.

So it's funny when we dig through our closets and pull out old clothes and try them on for a night for someone's house party theme. The music, at least, is still good. Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Soundgarden, the old 99.1 WHFS line-up. We poke fun at who we used to be, and laugh as we eat snacks we would now never buy, and distort our teenage selves. I know how my parents felt now when I used to dress up as a hippie for Halloween. You take yourself so seriously at 15- you never envision yourself, thirteen years later, making a mockery of it.

So I think about thirteen years from now, and whether or not I'll be sitting on someone's couch listening to the Hotel Costes soundtrack and giggling as we eat hummus with pita chips and drink $7-a-bottle pinot while wearing skinny jeans with flats. If we'll reach a point, again, where who we are is dated and "classic" enough to be camp. If we'll have "2010 parties" in our later years and make fun of who we were in our twenties. If we'll joke about BP and Obama the way we did about OJ and cigars. If we laugh at how seriously we took ourselves at that time, and think of how much better off we are.

Kind of puts things in perspective.