The "nap-read-repeat" Experiment, and other Year One Thoughts

Sigh....the Mellon Arena (forever lovingly, The Igloo) will be quiet, my stunning 16-year-old niece is quickly looking forward to life after Beaver Sr. High School, my Mom's 73rd birthday was yesterday, lots of high-school graduation parties. It's kind of a reflective time, so I'm looking back.

Just a little. Just a year. I'm geeky that way.

It's been about a year since I lost a job with a company I loved for most of my time there, with people there I still love. But I'm about to start a two-year graduate program in a field that so far, seems so gratifying that I can't believe my luck in having the opportunity. So, I want to check-in with myself, and record some of the things I learned between the two events. Geeky, I know. But, I just want to remember that.....

• Even though some other careers sounded equally gratifying, I chose the right one.


• I can share a work bathroom with four healthily gassy men. And, a spider.


• There's a huge value in being income-poor. The financial restrictions of planning full-time studenthood have helped me appreciate more what I already have, and get creative about how I spend what I can. Just ask the mailman, who liked his homemade Christmas gift so much that he gave me a homemade, "you really shouldn't have" card in return.


• Certain people are irreplaceable. So I'll be less full, if the bond breaks.


• How to be lazy: work hard and be busy, so that you actually salivate and dive passionately into idleing time. Laziness, in doses...the best. Especially, with a fellow idler.


• Cheerleaders are everywhere. People really do want other people to succeed.


• Caring for and being with others is boatloads better, than hyper self-absorption.


• The garage will probably stay the creepy spider haven that it is. I will rip up carpeting, I will change light fixtures and toilet seats, I will paint, I will prune big trees with big scary pruners. But that garage, will wait for my future husband - wherever you are, darlin.


• I would've loved being a stay-at-home Mom. But I also love work outside of home. Am I really that unspecialized? Maybe, I'm just really lucky.


• The garbage men will take anything, for a few bottles of water and a little appreciative sweet talk. And, homemade cookies.


• The Allard School crossing guard is really Santa Claus. He HAS to be.

Now the other thing, was the Idler experiment. You know, because a few of you've been asking how the "nap-read-eat-read-read-nap..." plan has gone. It sounded great back in January but right after that, I started working lots of part-time hours, and endlessly shoveling snow. So I didn't truly try idleing until last week. And I can tell you, I took it too far. So.....

• How not to be lazy: Extreme Idleing, as done last week. It annoyed the HELL out of me. I had no part-time job accountability, avoided people, and ignored anything other than basic life functions, some frenzied tree-pruning for garbage day, and, the confused dogs. By Wednesday I was a self-certified sloth, and couldn't start a coherent thought or utter a meaningful sentence. Probably because I laid awake all night after too many daytime naps (so, sadly, no young David Cassidy dreams). A few friends told me I was "off" and seemed worried that I'd turned into a sleep-deprived 14-year-old boy. So, thanks, SO much for the mid-afternoon calls to make sure I'm now not sprawled on the couch, or patio, or, your front lawn.

So, experiment interruptus. Or at least, revised protocolus. Back to "normal" activities. Which means I'm back to being girl-with-a-twist, sleeping through the night, then unleashing whatever I usually unleash on the world at large.

And, so darn thankful, for all of it.

There's a Fine Line Between Anal and Retentive

The show-of-hands was kind of fun the last time, so let's do it again. How many of you have a love/hate relationship with your favorite local TV weather person? Okay, more than I expected. Well, you shouldn't feel guilty about it. And you won't, after this.

This morning it occurred to me I could be the best local weather forecaster ever, but unfortunately I'd need the entire news time slot to share it. It's a curse, the need to share the full story in all its guts and glory. It's my Dad's DNA, in me. I know it. My Dad was a great talker, with one of those silvery voices you wouldn't mind listening to all day long. And we did.

Daughter: Happy Retirement Day One, Dad. How was it?

Dad: Aw, thanks honey. It was busy...first your Mother and I had breakfast together. You know, that great breakfast casserole she makes when we have company. Except this time she used Canadian bacon instead of sausage. I think she usually uses Bob Evans sausage but maybe she didn't have the coupon for that. But anyway, it was SO good. So good. I had to have two plates because I haven't had a breakfast like that on a weekday for so long. Wow, I better take a good long walk tomorrow. Maybe I'll just drive down to the Trail since it's nice and flat. This neighborhood is SO hilly, you know. Which is probably what I need but I'm not so sure about my knees anymore. Anyway, after breakfast I.......

Daughter, 37 minutes later: Dad, I'm glad lunch was so good, too. I hate to stop but I have an early day tomorrow. Can I call you then? Love you.

Dad: Wha? Oh, yes! Of course. I forgot you're my corporate girl. Which reminds me......

So what's this got to do with the weather?

This morning when I woke up I expected to hear horrific hail, and to see that my neighbors' minivan had landed in my driveway. And I'd planned all sorts of indoor projects because MY LOCAL WEATHERMAN SAID IT WOULD BE CLOUDY AND STORMY, ALL DAY. The perfect day, for indoor things. So instead, I woke to the kind of partly sunny skies and brittle breeze that make me antsy, and more likely to take a roadtrip, or transplant large shrubbery....anything outdoors. Which is exactly what I did. I'm sure it was cloudy and stormy all day someplace in southwestern Pennsylvania. It just wasn't anywhere near me.

That's when I imagined that this Dad curse, could make me the most reliable and helpful weather girl anyone has ever seen. Because I could tell folks......

"North-northeastern quadrant 11, you'll start seeing sprinkles at 6:48 Monday morning. That's a little atypical for you all but I expect that time advance due to all the hot air - originating in the southwestern quadrants 63-74 where the Tea Party rally is tonight - pushing quickly your way. But, 11, showers will also end before the elementary school kids start their walk to school at 8:13am, so leave the slickers at home."

or,

"Now, looking at the 5-day forecast for Wyngate Drive addresses 128-143, the best times to plant those tomatoes will be Tuesday between 3:28 and 6:59 pm, and anytime Friday afternoon. Remember, tomato plants love warm soil and mildly breezy conditions, which you'll have in spades during those times. Wyngate 101-127, the breezes just won't be there for you then due to the topographical features of that darn hill, so don't try to plant just because the others are. Happy planting Carol!"

It's the Curse. Like Father, like Daughter.

It's been worse since going back to school. Last fall I was in anatomy-physiology/biochemistry course pre-work, which just might be the worst thing for someone like me. The terminology for body parts and processes and other fun things, are lengthy. It's detailed and exacting and takes forever to write, and even longer to speak it. And, we were allowed - encouraged - to blah-blah-blah all of it.

So the Dad curse is a kind of glossopharyngealorrhea.....just think, "oral discharge". Which means if I actually were a weather person, we might just have a hate/love relationship.

But I'm just a girl, with a twist. And a curse. So tolerant love/love mail only, please.

Love you, Dad.

What Would David Cassidy Do?

How many of you dream at night? All right, good, I'm counting lots of hands. Now, how many of your dreams are relatively straightforward and logical? I see very few hands going down. All right. Now, how many of you have crazily vivid, sensory, action-packed, nonsensical dreams, night, after night, after night? Uh....okay....just a few of us. I'm sure it's nothing to worry about.

That very scientific poll doesn't say much. We all have wacky dreams once in awhile. Some of my friends don't remember dreaming at all, which might have something to do with trying to feed 2.8 kids, 1.4 pets, and .78 husbands (again, very scientific statistical medians) and get out the door on time each morning. But most admit to having some crazy dreams once in awhile. Which helps me to feel a little less....unusual. Because compared to others my dreams have always been a little deviant. I say that because when pulled into a dream conversation, the others always seem to want to offer helpful suggestions for my rehabilitation.

Take this past week. David Cassidy paid a visit to woo me while on a camping trip. We got caught by my Dad heading to first base (you know....), but my Dad seemed to be cool with it once David assured him it was okay because, he's something like, 77 years old now. Even though he looked like young David Cassidy. Then we chopped wood. Last night, I filmed advertising spots for soup, with various celebrities slurping and tangoing because it was SO good. Martha Stewart can gyrate with the best of them. She sticks out because she also sang Handel's Hallelujah Chorus. She cannot sing with the best of them, just so you know. Not long after that I was in a van driven by a childhood friend's Mom when police sirens and a blackout stopped all traffic by the mall. Then we all saw why.....the enormous Mother Ship was hovering over J.C. Penney's and appeared to be ready to suck up the feisty ones. So of course my friend's Mom turned the headlights back on and floored it because, you know, minivans have been known to outrun advanced intergalactic spacecraft. I don't remember what happened when we got to the tunnel but we survived because, not long after, I was borrowing my ex-husband's sister's shampoo to shave my legs. That's just what you do.

I am not making that up. Those are the normal, printable parts from the last few nights. The rest.....

See why I wake up tired sometimes?

There's no point in trying to find meaning or purpose in these things. They're just curious and kind of entertaining. Sometimes I just wish I knew that other people were having similar, consistently whacked-out dream experiences.

So, join the club and share some of your kookiest dreams. Maybe we'll discover that the Mother Ship visits more people than I realized. And David Cassidy? He lives on to woo more unsuspecting women in the throes of REM.

Sleep tight.

Ed Grimley Visits Suburbia

While walking the dogs this morning I saw an oddly-shaped man ahead of us, walking himself. Really quickly. I guess his shape wasn't the actual kooky-looking thing. It was more that he walked with a very noticeable pelvic-thrust, like Ed Grimley, and wore a white t-shirt and bright blue shorts pulled up to his nipples, like my Uncle Joe used to (which, I loved about him). But it was really his black socks and shiny black shoes that got me wondering a few things, like.....who was this memorable-looking man? Where was he headed on a frosty morning without his long pants? And, why haven't non-perturbative string theory formulations progressed beyond a divergent series of spacetime approximations?

I tried to catchup to chilly Mr. Grimley, not because I'm competitive or anything (wink), but I needed to see where he was going, or belonged. This would've been much easier, without two somewhat large dogs who were much more interested in checking-in on their favorite pee-poles and staring down a variety of critters. Which apparently can only be done while at a complete stop lasting at least 19 seconds. I've clocked it - I know.

Unfortunately Mr. Grimley didn't need to stop for anything. Even a pee pole (thankfully, I suppose). Maybe he was too cold to linger along his route. But by the time the dogs and I crested the hill and rounded the corner he'd just thrust his pelvis around, he was gone.

So sad. Until he resurfaces - if ever - I won't know if he made it safely to his destination. And where that would've been. Which just meant imagining one of these possibilities......

• Mr. Grimley is a renowned speed walker training for an Alpine-based world championship, by thrusting himself up and down the dreaded Madison Drive hill across the road from my house. I didn't check the bottom of the hill but if he's still there, I'm afraid the wild turkey flocks got him.


• Or....he's in the Witness Protection Program after blowing his undercover assignment as a Goldman Sachs informant. So hiding in Western Pennsylvania should work out just fine for him....apparently certain professional athletes do it all the time.


• Maybe I caught him in a morning after Walk of Shame. Which he deserved, for wearing that Uncle Joe outfit for his date the night before. Just ANOTHER reason I need to avoid match.com.

And oh gosh....so many more possibilities.

So until the next sighting, I'll keep imagining what Ed Grimley-dressed-as-Uncle Joe, was doing in extreme suburbia.

Don't you say.....

Boys Will be Men

For some reason I've always had an easy time with guys. I don't mean eeeasy (get your mind out of there). I mean, comfortable, natural. Many girls and women have been precious friends and influencers and allies, and continue to be. I don't know what I'd do without my Mom and sisters' unique way of relating and knowing, or the varied and many facets of my friends' experiences and perspectives. There is nothing like the connection of a long-time girl friend who may be your opposite on some levels - Cyn, I will never, ever, walk through a Sephora again - but who can provide such sentimental memories as sneaking me a post-marathon beer and hugging my sweaty butt.

But you GUYS. You bring a sometimes foreign but completely welcome twist to friendship. And it doesn't have everything to do with your preoccupation with bodily functions, though that's part of it.

For example, my current co-workers. Til May, I work 20-25 hours each week at a running store with a bunch of fabulous running dudes. With me, they love talking sports, talking Man vs. Food, talking silliness (how many "fart-oops-it's-poop-pants-while-running" stories can you handle hearing?), and doing silliness (how many creative burps can you witness?). But they're also each smart, witty, and - they'll THROTTLE me - sensitive. Not sappy-sensitive. Just acutely aware and appreciative sensitive. They're all 20-or-30 something and love being boys, but they're also mature beyond their years about certain things. They unabashedly love their wives and protect that pact with everything they've got. They relish and protect their friendships. They know themselves well, and understand and abide by their personal boundaries better than I do mine. They easily empathize with the struggles of the folks who walk through the store doors. And they're COOL. Completely unpretentious, and uncensored.

I've loved my time with them, just being a girl (with a twist). They just let me BE. Because of them I've laughed hard the last few months, learned how not to fill out an NCAA bracket, and re-connected with a few important personal precepts I think I'd moved a little too far away from. I have no idea if I've added anything to their lives except a sure-fire way to cure hiccups, and how to win a pizza-eating contest. But I'll take my lessons from them with lots of gratitude, and the laughs with a few hiccups here and there.

The fabulous running dudes are just the latest of the many fabulous guys I've been lucky to know over the years (you know who you are). And all of you marvelous dudes have taught me things I might not've let the equally marvelous girls in my life teach me. Girls get "this", guys get "that". Between both, I'm covered. I'm not sure why. It's just happened that way.

So boys and men, thanks. And running store dudes, I'll miss being with your comfortable, gassy selves on such a regular basis.

Lesson learned.

Girl With a Twist Meets Dr. Awesome

It's only been a month or so since Girl With a Twist hit match.com, but I'm ready to admit it: I STINK, at online dating. With a real, rotting-carcass-in-the-chimney kind of stink.

I truly did join match.com with a new, "just say yes" mindset, which so far has led to encounters such as:

DUDE169: u have a really gr8 profile. i luuuv ur pics. do u like my pics?

Girl With a Twist: Thanks. Your profile was, um, out of the ordinary. And that was a very different profile picture. Not too many guys can take their own picture while driving a golf ball. Did that hurt?

DUDE: nah. but i went to the doctor after taking the bench pressing pic. it was worth it..... i look awesome

Girl: Yes, Dr. Awesome, that is quite a photo. #26, I think.

DUDE: nah, 26 thru 31 show me dressed up looking hot with my wife. uh, my ex-wife, i mean. wanna hook up at the gym? u could spot me. then i could show u more pics.

Girl: Oops, the toilet is overflowing. Gotta run.....!

Now, I am all for healthy egos. I love them. My irrepressible nine-year-old nephew - the REAL Dr. Awesome - has one that keeps me laughing, and loving him for his sheer joy at being. But that is something that can only be appreciated "live"......truly, nine-year-old Dr. Awesome just wouldn't translate as well in two dimensions as he does in your face. So for someone like me, who needs to see it, touch it, smell it (the guy, not the carcass) before dating it, online matching is about as appealing as pulling 23 ticks from a large, squirmy, long-haired dog. As drama-and-diva-free as I hope I am, it's just way too easy for me to shut-down a two-dimensional opportunity over something trivial. Like 43 self-shot vanity photos.

So stinking at this is actually okay, because over the last month I've had a lot of laughs - mostly at myself - and I've reconnected with my dating mojo. And if even a small percentage of the men online are legitimately single, then I've also learned that there are many more available men in Southwestern Pennsylvania than there are black bears. Which until recently I wouldn't have thought.

Which brings me to....meeting Dr. Awesome. My match. The adult version. I haven't met him yet, but I'm pretty sure it's not going to happen online. Which means Girl With a Twist needs to take the new, open, "just say yes" attitude on the road. Single friends have been alerted, and are maybe a little alarmed. I mean, it's been a long time since any of us have undertaken a targeted, let's-meet-Dr. Awesome mission.

But this might be a little bit different than my friends expect. The Dr. A roadtrip doesn't mean going to every happy hour and saying yes! to anyone who buys me a chardonnay. None of us want to become the newest Texts From Last Night girl.

So I guess the heart of this is....paying attention. A whole lot more. To the encounters I have in the running store, and while volunteering, and at the Home Depot, and yes....while out to drinks or dinners or activities with my friends and family. Maybe that will help me really see the authentic things I can wholeheartedly connect with, instead of discarding opportunities because they don't fit my tiny little framework.

Girl With a Twist is ready. Are you, Dr. Awesome?

Girl, With a Twist

Timeout! It's such a simple concept, with so many applications. Some of my friends have used it with variable success to discipline their kids, though I always felt awful when Thomas the Tank engine and his friends were put into timeout instead of the little boy who'd just used Percy to whack his little sister between the eyes. TV timeouts are another debatable thing. And I don't know anyone who loves that the last two minutes of some college basketball games can take foreeeeeever to go by, thanks to team timeouts every possession or two.

I really shouldn't bitch about very very, long timeouts, since I'm just finishing one. I started a dating timeout last July after a promising relationship ended. I haven't counted days (I'm saving that for the end of this five-month vacation), but that's a seven month-plus break from any sort of me+guy-in-a-relationship effort.

It might've started - the little dating seed in my head - when an online scholarship search got me so frustrated that I almost went to confession after dropping the F-bomb about 37 times a minute for the better part of an afternoon. Those search results were sooooo imbecilic, all I could think was that even a dating website could produce more actionable results than the scholarship folks. So I did a match.com search, and confirmed that scholarship-matching sites should just stop trying to connect left-handed guys named McGillen with southwestern community colleges offering duck-calling grants to right-handed people of British royal descent. It's just not gonna happen.

But online matching? That, most definitely, can. At least I can add to match.com's forced inputs by writing a respectable "in my own words" introduction. So I visited match.com and, a "Girl With a Twist" was born. Or, unleashed. About two weeks ago.

This time, I made a commitment to be much more open-minded about the possibilities. That means respecting where my potential matches are coming from, and no passing up men because they're shorter than 5'10, older than 49, occasionally misspell words, or have unfortunate screen names such as "LOoking4U", "How4everFeels" (um, endless?), and, "DUDE".

I wish I could say I've honored the promise but so far, I've said "no thanks" to an earnest Emerson-quoting 57-year-old retiree in D.C., an excitable gentleman who added an "!!" to the end of every phrase, a 5'9" atheist who took a little issue with my spirituality and humor, and, others. For varying slightly picky but completely defensible reasons (honest, Mom). I just honestly can't see myself eventually meeting a guy who last read a book during President Reagan's first term, or only eats white foods. I mean....a girl's gotta read, and gotta eat. A lot.

So maybe a little compromise is in order now. I should look, I should learn, I should respond, but I should not pretend that tattooed free-spirited road-trippin' "DUDE" is really going to be interested in my career change, or that my heart will be captured by a man who has the edge of Winnie the Pooh.

I am a Girl With a Twist. So help me God.