Shoelaces for Josie

I grew up in a large family. Somewhere in the mumbo-jumbo of this blog, I mentioned I had four sisters and a brother. Consequently, I was never called the correct name growing up. In fact, whenever I make the pilgrimage back to me ole haunts, I’m still not called by my given name. It’s ok. It doesn’t bother me. In fact, I’ll answer to most anything - even Miss Crabtree, apparently.

Elaboration - today I cleaned for Really Old Lady (ROL). Once again, Safeway was graced with my presence, shopping list and “vintage” coin purse in tow. After racing quickly through the list - and by quickly I mean at the speed of grass growing in the desert - I checked out. I always use ROL’s club card. It’s her money. She should get a discount if it’s there.

Today was no different, however, after I batted my eyelashes at the cute sacker-man at the end of the counter (what is the correct terminology for them, anyway? bagger? sacker? probably not sacker-man now that I think of it. Probably a more PC term would be sacker-attendant.) and held my hand for my change, the cashier politely handed me the bills and said, “Thank you Miss Crabtree (aka ROL), have a nice day.”

You’ll be proud of me. I didn’t miss a beat. I looked her dead-on and thanked her and bid her a good day as well.

I laughed the entire way out of the store. People looked at me funny. Apparently walking through Safeway with a goofy grin and erupting chuckles is not deemed acceptable. What do I know? This is Name-Game Thursday and Miss Crabtree is in the hizzouse.

You know how there are just some days where you can’t make a decision?  That was today…Wishy-Washy Wednesday. The one thing I didn’t have to decide on today was when to be at work (thank you all-staff meeting - a week is not complete without being bored completely out of your mind for a good hour).

Other than that, how do you decide when to leave work? How do you decide whether you’re going to take a couple days off or not? When your roommates ask you to go paint pottery and you show up, how do you decide what to paint when you’re not feeling creative? (I found the answer to that one eventually: don’t paint.) Later this evening, it was the decisions about whether to answer the phone, what to eat or not to eat, what to wear…Wishy-Washy Wednesday.

Which reminds me…I may have told this story at one point in this blog but new people are reading now and it’s worthy of a second-telling anyway. Sometime soon I shall relate the story of Ian, and it shall be grandly glorious.

Wishy-Washy Wednesday - I bid you adieu.

Work today, as my old high school chemistry teacher would say, vacuumed. (Schneider, you finally made it into one of my posts! Not that he reads this…that would be weird and creepy…but if you are - ah - what up dude?) So I’m not going to talk about work today. I’m going to talk about Birthday Party Tuesday - BP Tuesday for short.

This evening, me and the ‘mates tossed a little gathering for one of our friends who was turning into even more of an old man than he was before. Yes, it’s true. He’s 24, henceforth christened Oldies. Quite the ancient one amongst us young’uns. But age - it’s just a number, right?

It was quite delish. Pulled pork (or cold pork if you’re Oldies family), potatoes, salad, cake…basically we rocked the cuisine.

So…awkward pause.

And that’s all I’ve got. Go BP Tuesdays.

There’s a little phrase I attached to this day: Damage Control Monday.

There are days in my line of work (saying line of work makes me sound like a prostitute or a drug dealer…it adds an element of scandal to my otherwise pristinely-white job) when things are best describe as mute. Or lacking the cels of life. Or autopilot.

Today was not one of those.

Today was one of high energy, stress, people running amuck, press releases written and press conferences held. Today was Damage Control Monday. That’s what happens in athletics when personnel changes, or scandal occurs (in America? *gasp* how dare you insinuate such a thing!), or a variety of other newsworthy, unexpected happenings. And that’s when my rather stodgy job becomes a live bomb.

What to say to the media? The media is like a pack of starved wolves, snapping at your feet, leaping up and reaching for a piece of meet, getting whatever they can take however they can take it. That’s the media. I may have been a member of the media at one point and technically I am a member of the media right now, but I certainly am not walking around with a rose-colored picture of what said institution is about.

Thankfully, in today’s case, I didn’t have to slave over a statement to the media. There are certain advantages to being low bowl on the totem pole and today that meant I only had to answer the phones.

“Damage Control Monday Media Relations, How may I control your damage today?”

Today was a day in my life that took its pages out of a really bad movie script.

I really wish I could explain it in a way that would make sense and be witty and charming but I don’t have a lot of faith in my skillz at the moment.

Long story short, I was trying to find a way home from the basketball tournament, space was limited, so I was waiting for my friend to come pick me up on her way through town. I was planning on waiting on the corner but my coworkers wouldn’t let me stay by myself so we - all tired, worn out and ridiculous - pretended to do drug deals as they tried to pick me up for a little extra curricular fun. People looked at me as they drove by. It was awkward.

It was like a really bad version of Pretty Woman. And I certainly don’t look like Julia Roberts.

There was laughter. There was fun. But I am soo glad to be home.

The End.

I usually don’t go into great description about myself but let me just describe this a bit. I’m in a robe. A white robe that says The Davenport Hotel on it. I also have matching white slippers. The bed has five pillows and all the furniture in this room are of the claw foot variety. The ceilings are…I don’t even know how to describe them - vaulted? Varigated? Crossbeams dropped down to look elegant?

The bed is heavenly, the bathroom - ahem - the water closet - is wow. And that’s just this room. The lobby? The red-coated valet who opens the outer door every time I enter or depart. Basically, I’m staying in the most ritzy hotel on the east side.

It’s pretty nice you know. I’m not really into this kind of thing but it’s fun every once in awhile. Especially when it is someone else’s dollar, aeh?

So I think I get it. I think I understand how rich people can be. I also am beginning to glimpse how it works to pull off the rich facade. But really - looking the part isn’t enough. I’m walking around in a white robe cinched at the waist and if I focus, I can talk like a rich person…whatever that means. But I have no doubt that when it comes to something real - like who to tip, how much and when - I would be a complete waste of space as a rich person.

If you can’t walk the talk, then you shouldn’t bother. But boy, it sure is fun and entertaining to play at it for a couple of days!

What is there to say? You would think after being MIA for a couple days, I would have loads of stories to tell.

Well, I don’t.

I spent the last couple days in the middle of nowhere with no cell service and no internet (virtually none). And - believe it or not - it was nice. There’s something to be said for going back to the Pilgrim days. And at such a fitting time too. I felt like I should sit down to Thanksgiving dinner in my buckle shoes and peddle pushers.

Really - I think it’s just been too long since I’ve written. Blogging is a groove thing. It’s all about flow - slicing and dicing - rhythm. And my time spent with the Pilgrims totally threw me off. Now it’s like I’m back on a first date, unsure of what to say and not sure where to go with it.

And that’s my story.

Oh, and I started crocheting. I think I’m making a scarf. Ugh - I really must have gone back to the Pilgrim days…

Today, I was just chilling in the homestead with Brother Mark when my doorbell rang.

Let’s reflect on that a moment - my doorbell rang.

My doorbell never rings. Either people a) walk in or b) knock as they are walking in. There is no option C for doorbell use.

So Brother Mark and I exchange glances as he exclaims the oddity of my doorbell ringing. I agree as I rise to go to the door, my imagination flashing with images of some psycho with a gun or the at-large arsonist with a handful of fire.

But, I felt safe enough with Brother Mark having my back and I opened the door to - well - a homeless looking man. He was rather tiny and scruffy. A bit unkempt with a bright-colored stocking hat that had seen better days. Brother Mark’s earlier comment about solicitors didn’t really seem too far off at that point. Did the dude need some food?

No - we spoke through the glass. I don’t think he expected me to open the outer door which seemed odd. But he had stopped to kindly tell me that because of the tree that had fallen on the opposite side of the road, people were driving dangerously close to my car parked on the street.

Now I admit. That was nice of the homeless man. But my suspicions have been aroused. Who stops to tell someone their car might be hit when it is quite obvious that the car had to have been parked there to start with? Maybe the homeless guy look was just an act. Maybe he was scoping out my house for a future robbery. It’s the holidays. This town is dead. The perfect time.

Meh. Whatever. What was it I was watching earlier today - oh, a music video - and it said “You can’t take it with you when you go.”

So true. So freakin’ true.

I’ve made it no secret that I’m a sports fan. I don’t let it define who I am (like those superfans who watch the same Sportscenter three times in the day or sit around and spout off “Did you know?” sports facts.) but now that it is basketball season, I like to have the television tuned into basketball at every chance I get.

In fact, I’m watching UCLA right now. The hype around Kevin Love isn’t complete bunk. The kid is good.

But not even my great love for sports has helped me get over something I really don’t like: mascots. Mascots make me nervous, and I really don’t like them. Something about humans dressed in a suit with an overly large head just sets me on edge.

Example: while on the sidelines of a football game, the mascot came up behind me. I knew he was there. I just tried to ignore the tall, big-headed beast, but apparently the mascot thought I hadn’t seen him so he was following me and waiting for me to turn around so he could scare me.

You know, they say that sometimes when you’re immersed in your fear, it helps you get over it. Not the case with me and my odd mascot complex. Having him two inches from me for an extended period of time did nothing but increase my uneasiness. I plan on doing as much as possible to put the largest amount of space between me and people dressed in costumes with creepy large heads.

That is one of the perks of watching sports from the couch. You can’t beat sweatpants and no mascots.

I may have moved 1500 miles, but I have found myself involved in more family dinners than when I lived closer to home.

For two weeks in a row, family of my roommates have gathered at our humble abode to dine around our ping-pong table (yes, the big green thing. We actually took down the net - it was too much of a barrier…felt like we were trying to segregate the group or something). I have found myself in the middle of these family dinners although I’m not really family. Actually - there’s not any “not really” about it.  I’m not family. I’m just the person that’s always there. More often than not that is read as “awkward.”

Now don’t get me wrong. I like these family dinners. (It will be quite difficult to forget the discussions about birth order and people with red hair, won’t it Liz?). But at times, at times I definitely feel like the odd person out on a date. You know, the one that is half a second behind on all the laughs and looking lost when people’s names are mentioned.

But really, it’s cool. I like it. It’s like this big, crazy family with lots of stuff going on. Dinners are always interesting. I usually laugh. I sometimes squirm a bit when the attention is turned on me since I only have me to back myself up and not a whole ping-pong table full of family members to do the job, but it rocks.

Plus, the food is always awesome. You don’t pass that up, not for a minute.