The new girl has been at the office for two days.  Today is her second day.  I walked in to drop something off and there she stood (far away from her assigned desk) on the nasty, coffee stained, bacteria infested indoor/outdoor carpet...in BARE FEET.  Absolutely no boundary, cotton, nylon or otherwise, between her toes and whatever lives and breeds in that flooring. 

 

I was stunned.  The level of gross here is nearly incomprehensible.  I mean, I'm sorry, her feet are nasty.  And, when I think about them trapezing around on the flooring, and I think I've made myself clear about how filthy that is, I get physically ill. 

 

And now, I ask you, what kind of person goes to work at a professional office and even thinks it appropriate to kick off her shoes and walk around barefoot?  And then, what kind of person thinks its okay to get that comfortable on the second day?  And what kind of person thinks that strangers even want to see her dirty barefeet walking all around anyway?

 

Slipping off your shoes revealing your clean and manicured feet at your desk, within your personal boundary, AFTER you've developed a level of comfort with your co-workers might be one thing, but this complete abuse of foot protocol should be grounds for dismissal.  I mean, her feet are making people literally gag and she doesn't have enough self-awareness to realize this.  Is she really ready for the professional work world?

 

Seems to me that a barefoot summer at Wal-Mart and good staph infection would fix this problem...and then she could be rehired in the fall.

 

-b

Here is one of my fundamental needs as a human being:  I need my Zumba instructor to be thin and happy.

 

I'm sorry.

 

I know, "fitness is for everyone," and "being healthy is what matters," and all the junk that goes along with that, but let's just put it where it really is--if I get myself to the Y, schedule everything around this time, sweat like a hooker on judgement day and stumble around the room like a drunk elephant, then I need the person who is forcing this upon me to be happy, smiling and thin.  This person must be my beacon of hope--"if I keep doing this, maybe I'll look like her one day."  It doesn't matter if I'm not 5' 10" or twenty-one or black or whatever. I need false hope.  GIVE ME THE DELUSION.

 

Now listen, I do not labor under any misapprehension that there's truly any possible way that I really could look like 'her,' but for those few, miserable minutes that I have committed to being there, I need to believe that.   Putting someone in front of me who is heavier than I am is NOT motivation.  It is, in fact, quite disheartening.  I spent the class thinking, "Really?  That's IT?  That's all I've got to look forward to?"

 

I'm not condoning my personal thoughts or truths, I'm just telling you like it is. 

...and you know I'm right.

 

-b

 

 

There comes a point in your life when you realize the following:

 

1.  Who matters.

2.  Who never did.

3.  Who won't anymore.

4.  Who always will.

 

Life is short, gang.  Make good choices.

 

-b

I was in a sorority in college.  Actually, I wasn't just in the sorority, I was the President of my sorority by the time it was all said and done.  It still makes me giggle when I think about it.  It still doesn't seem like I was the 'sorority girl' type--even now I don't think I am, but, it was a small college and I was obsessed with the resume looking good and so a social sorority and the opportunites it would bring seemed like the thing to do.

 

 

Our pledge class had to write a song that spring semester which we were to present to everyone at our formal.  As it was, I was pledging the sorority with one of my best friends from high school and Kristin and I were, well, either resourceful or lazy...or both.  When we were instructed to write a song, Kristin and I both thought of the song I'd written the previous year for our high school graduation.  I'd written it and taught it to the choir and we performed it at graduation.  Kristin had been in the choir and so she already knew the song, and we decided it would be easier to change a couple words of that song than try to write a new one.

 

And, that's what we did.  We took out an "every time" and inserted an "Alpha Gam," taught it to the other pledges and--done.  It was a huge hit at the formal.  (Of course, as it turned out, we didn't actually have to write a brand new song, we only had to change the words of an existing song. Yeah, a little late now, huh?)

 

Well, the song, "When I Say Friend," stuck around.  The whole sorority learned it and we sang it for the rest of the time I was in college (yes, sororities sing songs while standing in circles--I don't know why.)  I guess it was either my junior or senior year when one of the new pledges was killed in a car accident, and in memory of her, our Alumni Chapter had the words to, "When I Say Friend," matted and framed and hung in the sorority suite.  I haven't been back to campus for a few years, but last time I was there, the lyrics still hung on the wall. 

 

I got an email from Kristin today regarding an AGD newsletter we had all received (technically, I'm still in the sorority, gang, so we still get newsletters).  She pointed out where the lyrics to, "When I Say Friend," were quoted.  Can you even believe they are still singing this song?  How does it keep going like that.  Better question, why?  As a professional writer now, I cannot in good conscience, quote you the lyrics.  I wrote it about friendship when I was seventeen.  That should tell you everything you need to know.

 

I guess the moral of the story is that you really shouldn't underestimate the power of a song...even a bad one. 

 

ESL & L--

-b

My pug snores louder than my father.

 

And that's LOUD.

 

-b

The first and last time I tried to write with Lee, I totalled my car.  I'm trying it again this afternoon.  I'm still fighting the sore throat I came back from camp with, but that will not stop me  I WILL get to that writing room today, and I WILL participate.

So there.

 

-b

What do you think happens when you put a large group of angst-ridden, intelligent and artistic teenagers together for a week and make them write?  I guess for me, I learned a lot about myself.  I caught glimpses of who I must have been at that age and it was fascinating.  For a week, they focused on either fiction writing, memoir, poetry or songwriting, and they got a taste of everything, whether it was their concentration or not.  This is what the TN Young Writer's Workshop is. 

 

These kids came from all kinds of backgrounds.  One read us a piece she wrote about how she and her brother always fought over who got to ride up front in the car.  On this particular day, it was her turn, but he got up front anyway.  He took her place in the front passenger seat, they had a car wreck, and everyone in the car lived except for her older brother.  She wrote about seeing him dead on the hospital bed and about how she is alive because he took her place.

 

Another wrote about being fat.  She wrote about all the mean things kids and teachers both have done to her since the first grade because of her weight.  I was amazed that she would stand in front of a group of her peers and read it, but that was what made it profoundly powerful.  And, while I don't feel at liberty here to tell you her backstory, it would make you see 'the fat kid' in a whole different light.  Honestly, I wish I could afford to send her to a summer camp for kids who are overweight where they also put them in intense counseling to deal with the issues that make them turn to food. 

 

There were priviledged kids who seemed rarely challenged.  There were kids who came on scholarship because their families couldn't afford such an opportunity for them.  Kids whose parents literally hate them or resent them and then kids whose parents couldn't be more proud.  Kids without parents anymore, kids who live with relatives, and kids who come from loving homes.  For all the backstories and for all the circles of references and life experiences, each one had a voice.  Each young person brought a perspective to the table that no one else had, and even better, they all cheered each other on.  They clapped for each other, they screamed for each other, they hugged, they cried and they bragged on each other all week.  They were a fine group of people and I was honored to be part of it.  Having always lived a little on the fringes of 'normal' myself, it was lovely to see kids who might feel a little left of center in their schools instead feel completely cool. 

 

Here's to the underdogs.

-b

 

Sidenote:  The TN Young Writer's Workshop is sponsored by Humanities Tennessee.  It is open to all kids (you don't have to live in TN to go) entering the 8th grade through enterting their freshman year of college.  If you have a young writer in your life who would love to spend a week writing, check out www.humanitiestennessee.org.  Obviously, this year's camp is completed, but you can look to next year and to applying for grants and scholarships early. 

I've been gone this week.

 

I was on faculty at the Tennessee Young Writer's Workshop which was at Austin Peay State University.  I had no internet access all week and not-so-great cell service.  I got to check my messages today and it looks like I missed quite a week.

 

It was good to be gone and, honestly, a little nice to be disconnected from technology, but it's also a little odd when you're so used to being accessible.

 

I'll tell you more about the week later.  Right now, I'm sleepy and I need to do laundry.  I've been living in a college dorm with teenagers all week...I know you'll forgive me for not blogging right now.  :-)

 

-b

My friend just got out of his first publishing deal.  It was a bad one, of course, entered into with lots of hope and trust.  It was only a one year thing, but he got his naivete handed back to him on a silver platter about six months in.  Apparently, he wasn't believing in God enough and that's why things weren't taking off.  At least that what they suggested.

 

See, I would have thought that the reason things weren't taking off was that they weren't demoing his stuff or that they weren't pitching it or that they promised connections that didn't really have...or any number of things like that.  But, what do I know?  Well, I do know that my friend is supremely talented and he's going to be just fine.

 

Gang, I re-assert to you aspiring writers:  you need a bad publishing deal like you need a big gaping hole in your head.  Better to be your own team if your only other choice is a losing one. 

 

Alas, we learn.

 

-b

...since I seem to spending so much time with them lately.

 

Yesterday, I was stopped by a policeman as I sat at a red light.  I'm not kidding.  I was sitting still at a red light.  How do these things happen to me? 

 

Well, I guess the policeman behind me was bored and so he 'ran my plate' (whatever that really means) while we sat waiting for the light to change.  And, wouldn't you know, the car dealership hadn't gotten my tags transferred from the Corolla to the Accord yet NOR did they give me a temporary tag display in the meantime.  I've been driving my new car for 2 1/2 weeks unregistered (which is, again, a bad thing.)  I had no idea.

 

I won't even bother telling you that I have the stickers on my plate in the wrong places...which I can't really fix until I get the new registration so I can take it through emissions and then pay for the renewal and, thus, get new stickers.

 

Anyway, the bill of sale along with my old insurance card for the Corolla and my new insurance card for the Accord was enough to keep me out of jail...and out of a ticket.  I was stunned.  All Metro officers give tickets at all times under the current police chief.  He's a little psycho about statistics and I couldn't fathom a single white woman could get out of ticket in Metro Nashville.  Seems like it would mess up all the "fair" statistics.  But, my officer defied all odds when he sent me on my way after a good explanation of all the things that were wrong with my picture. 

 

There is still good in the world.

 

-b

 

 

...I have a membership to Sam's Club.  I bought dishwashing detergent about two months ago.  I believe it weighed in at around 11 pounds worth.  After analyzing my rate of useage of late, it appears that I can say with some amount of certainty that I will never have to buy Cascade again.

 

-b

 

 

 

 

 

The text I sent to someone when I was leaving Zumba last night:

 

"If anyone I know ever sees me in a Zumba class, I will have to leave the country.  I'm an uncoordinated buffoon."

 

Happy 4th!

 

-b

Oh dear, kids. 

Oh, dear.

I've been saying I was going to do this forever.  I think I even mentioned it in a posting a while back.  British Lisa told me I should do it probably a year ago.  I had the best of intentions (story of my life), but I just never did it.  I even drove there once and decided I couldn't go in and left.  Yesterday morning, however, was the appointed time.  I just got in the car, drove over to the Y and walked into the Zumba class.

 

You should know my aversion to organized group exercise surprisingly doesn't date back to Cottageville Elementary School when we would play war ball and the boys would throw the ball at me so hard I would get big red welts on my legs and stomach.  Conversely, I became quite the little catcher during that time (if you caught their ball, then they were out and you were safe...safe to collect more welts on your body, I guess...hmmm...but anyway...). 

 

My aversion to organized group exercise began around 1999 just after I'd moved to Nashville.  I'd decided I would try kickboxing.  It was all the rage at the time and I had just joined a very nice fru-fru gym close to my apartment.  It was a gym used by lots of irritating tiny people, but I didn't care.  I was going to work out.  And, so, thinking that kickboxing would be something I could do with my fused ankle, I showed up at the class.  I knew I was in trouble when the pint-sized, scantily clad, blond, she-devil instructor told everyone to run two laps around the gym to start out.  See, I can't actually run with my ankle.  So class starts with my limping very quickly around the gym being lapped by everybody else.  That wasn't awkward at ALL. 

 

Then we lined up for class and I was (accidentally) standing next to this perfectly toned Asian man.  The instructor called for jumping jacks.  I'm not even exaggerating when I tell you that my neighbor's jumping jacks weren't actually jumping jacks, but rather, SPREAD EAGLE JUMPS STRAIGHT INTO THE BLUE SKY--or, well, at least as high as my shoulders.  Okay, I can barely jump three inches and the dude next me is a full on acrobat.  We find out after a few minutes that my circus freak neighbor is actually in town rehearsing for his kickboxing video and the instructor of this class will be one of the people who work out with him in his video.  Allow me to feel hugely inadequate now. 

 

After about 20 minutes of me going through the tiny motions of aerobic warm up and Freak Show next to me doing flips and handsprings, the instructor tells us to pull out the punching bags.  The only kickboxing I'd ever seen was kicking into the air.  I had no idea we would have to kick an actual bag.  Also, mind you, I can't actually kick a bag as hard as I can because I would seriously probably break my foot (it is paralyzed and has zero motion in it, in case I haven't mentioned that to you.)  Anyway, the kicking begins and in my head I'm thinking that I just have to fake this for a few minutes and then it will be over.  That would've worked had the instructor not made a beeline for me so she could yell at me till her face turned red.  "Harder!  Harder!"  Gang, she had no idea that it wasn't possible, but she would not go away.  I remember even trying to put a really angry look on my face just trying to feign cooperation, but it didn't work. She kept yelling at me.  "Why are you wasting your time?"  Blah, blah, blah.  "We don't have time for sissies in this class."  (No, I'm actually not exaggerating. )

 

And, so, with that, I looked her in the eye and said, "You win," and I politely walked out.  I remember the music was really loud and she was yelling stuff as I walked out, but it was all just noise to me.  In retrospect, I get that she was probably just trying to be "motivating" and I probably should've clued her in at the beginning of the class, but whatever.  I could also argue that a good instructor would've picked up on the situation early on, but she was too busy trying to be cool for Ringling Brothers.  I'd paid for a full year at the gym in advance at that point.  I'd been a member for about a week.  I walked out that evening and never went back. 

 

Anyway, Zumba.  Yesterday.  It's aerobic--kind of dancing to Latin music.  It was really, really fun and it kicked my rear.  The instructor was lovely, didn't single anyone out and would stop and demonstrate the more difficult moves for those of us who hadn't been in class before.  My experience yesterday was completely polar opposite to the '99 incident.  And, so, I'm going back tomorrow. 

 

Today, however, I'm so sore that breathing hurts. 

 

-b

 

p.s. No, I'm not in the picture.  I'm not THAT stupid.