Fun Police and the Neighborhood Watch

After the joys of living in a trendy 300 square foot cube with hipster music students and a dilapidated building in Cambridge with portly nude hula hooping neighbors I was very judgey when searching for my ATX digs. I needed walls that were solid, a ceiling that would not collapse when it rained, non collegiate neighbors who would not think an impromptu kegger on a Tuesday was a rad idea, and most importantly no one who made Indian food on the daily given my proclivity to smell curry and turn into a cannon.

When searching for apartments my agent only asked about why I assumed my ceiling would collapse-my other queries and rabid sniffing of the air were seemingly commonplace and we found an apartment I love.

My first year was bliss.  For all extensive purposes my neighbors only stop me to say how interesting Ari is (he IS the neighborhood watch) or to politely ask me to gather their mail why they attend a retirement cruise in the Caribbean.  There is no partying, no curry, and when it rains I feel relaxed rather than my Pavlov d reaction of yesteryear of racing for cover with Ari. Things are great.

Until the refurbishing started.

 While ari had fresh entertainment from his window post as construction men scurried around for a month the noise kicked off...and then a smell.

At first I assumed paint thinner. Then my dorm flashbacks started to become more realistic-and simultaneously blurry.

It's pot. And while you may think me a naked hula-hoop hating fun police, it is beyond the realm of a good time-it's so strong I actually gag every time I set foot in my hallway-it's like being IN the pipe 16 hours a day.

I, fun police that I am, complained after a month and the construction men wandered away to other gigs and the smell prevailed.  Apparently there are complainers on all six floors-it's that strong and there is not even a hint of where it could be coming from since it's everywhere.

Ari's neighborhood watch is about to get an upgrade-the older ladies of the retirement cruise set have invited me to join their hunt to reef the neighbor out.

It's high excitement here.

A letter for Maddy: on what is beautiful

Miss Madeline,

 At the age of 3 you somehow possess more style than a lot of the women I know. I love that everyday you pick out something that feels good to you and you have very real opinions about not just what you're wearing but what the people around you are wearing too. Given that I am also a lover of clothes, I delight in your style.

But it makes me worry a bit too-this focus on the external. I was driving you to see The Nutcracker and you told me that you wanted long hair. When I asked why, your answer crushed me, "So I'll be beautiful."

How is it at 3 you already have this idea?

 What I know, and what you'll discover as you get older is that beauty is ever so much more than how you look. You will meet breathtakingly stunning people, who once you get to know them and their actions will become steadily more and more unattractive. You wont like them-not because of how they look but because of how they behave.  It's amazing when you begin to see the manifestation of a person's heart on their external skin.  Your actions to a certain extent do become your appearance.

 It works the other way too. Sometimes you may overlook someone at first, but as you get to know them, their heart, their kindness towards you it starts to show up. Their beauty becomes more and more external.  Sparkling eyes you never noticed before, a crooked tooth that is so endearing it makes you smile to remember it.  My first boyfriend noticed my freckles...and my dimples-something so small but that to him, made me beautiful.

 Your beauty, something that at 3 you are already worried about is entirely under your control. It's not defined by your jean size or eye color. And certainly not by your hair length (cause on that score little darling you are screwed with my hair). But in how you treat others-are you kind? Are you attentive? Or are you mean? Teasing? It's also in how you treat yourself. Do you follow your heart? Do you follow your own style? (you certainly do now) Do you speak kindly of yourself? Do you feel beautiful? 

That last question may be the most important. There was a time when I didn't feel beautiful. I was worried about my hair. Obsessed with my size. Fixing both didn't make me feel beautiful. But you know what did? Being kind to my friends. Having friends that in turn were kind to me. Excelling at work. Discovering that I really really really thought my hips were sexy. The more I focused on what was inside the more my outside seemed to change. I hope you always feel beautiful. And if not I hope you focus on the things that are. And if worse comes to worse call on Auntie J cause to me you are the most beautiful little girl in the whole wide world-and sometimes it helps to hear that.

 Love you!

Madge!!!

When I was 18 I thought it would be pretty cool to see Madonna.  

At 20 when an acquaintance told me about how she had been to a Madonna concert and passed out drunk in her seats it was akin to being told that someone had passed out in a church.  I was just aghast, for one why would you want to drink so much you pass out in one of the greatest entertainers in our generation concert?  For another, why would you pay good money to do it?

In any event.  About a month ago I circled February 27th on my calendar-since that was the day Madonna tickets in Dallas went on sale and the day I decided I would be getting tickets to a life list item.  15 minutes before the tickets went on sale I logged onto the ticket master site and hit refresh for 15 agonizing minutes.  When colleagues came over to my cube I waved them away in a manner that would suggest I was making life and death decisions in my cubicle.

When the moment came...the tickets were no longer available.  Gone.  

Because in a matter of 30 seconds scalpers snapped them up.

My sister and I exchanged incredulous text messages before committing to paying double for nose bleed seats from a reseller.

BUTTTT...the tickets have been bought.  And in October I will be on "Holiday" with my sister-seeing the great Madonna live.  

On developing a (totally reasonable) fear of high fructose corn syrup

In my youth I discovered I had some skill at losing weight. I'm good at it. What I'm not good at is,

 A. Not being obsessive about it (adding calories on post it's is cra cra)
 B. Not knowing what is too much for my body to handle
 C. Balancing diet and fitness together. I go all one way or another.

 I mean, case in point, while running a marathon I tore through the cartilage in my hip, had bone rubbing on bone, and proceeded to finish and gallivant around on a painful hip for several months before the pain was literally unbearable.  Smart? No. Sign of a deeply stubborn and competitive person? Yes. 

 Anyway, after months a extremely limited mobility and high stress months at work wherein eating my feelings to stop actual break down crying jags about some of the hideous people I deal with was the daily norm I packed on some booty. My pants are snug.  And not good snug. And my pants are too expensive to admit I need to roll to the next size. And don't even get me going about my boobs. Chris may actually be afraid of them at this point.

 Because I refuse to move to the next size of pants/bras etc I have one alternative and at this point I'm still on doctors order to not run-I must focus for now on my diet. I hate dieting. I love my carbs and I love my treats. But I love my being a size 4 and having energy more.  I decided with this diet I needed to be smart and careful. Rather than diving in head first I would make small tweaks like packing my lunch to plan to have healthy accessible and make all my dinners from scratch to try to cut out some of the processed junk. And obviously I would cut out tex mex, BBQ, and alcohol. And I would research what makes some things healthier than others.

Then google rained all over my eating parade.

 Holy sh*t guys.  Finding the work cafeteria's nutritional information was a day ruiner. 1200 calorie main courses. For lunch. And aspartame the main sweetener in most diet foods is really really really bad for you. And high fructose corn syrup? It can only be digested by your liver-and since its in everything processed and your liver can't process it all you are eating your future thighs.  Knowledge may be power, but it's a bit overwhelming to see just how bad the average American diet is. And changing habits? Hard. And digging thought the wall of yogurts at the grocery store to find one without high fructose corn syrup? Deeply demoralizing. And Impossible. Sigh. I'm just lucky that I do love exercise and that once I get the green light on my hip it will get easier, but in the meantime having the blinders lifted and changing ingrained habits is hard. And makes for one cranky Jenna dealing with withdrawal symptoms (cause, oh yeah, giving up diet coke leads to drug like withdrawal symptoms.) eeeek!

Stuff Challenge: 60 things in 60 minutes

I’m sure on other blogs you’ve seen a recent onslaught of posts dedicated to the purging of stuff.  Its even been the focus of several magazine articles given that February is the new “Spring” and Spring Cleaning needs to begin.  That or the final stages of Winter induced cabin fever have set in and you are actually starting to find that dust bunnies living in your bookshelves an endearing companion while watching CBS News Sunday morning. 

In any instance there comes a point, be it Spring or being threatened by the idea of moving to a new place, that you realize you are hanging onto your skinny shirt from Freshman year of high school and something has to give before your closet quite literally explodes on you leaving you buried in retro flannel that you’ve been clutching since the late 1990’s.

I do not revel in hours of cleaning.  While my house is never dirty, I only really give it a good thorough once over when threatened with company which luckily happens at least once a week so Ari isn’t forced to live in squalor.  Which is why the “60 items in 60 minutes” challenge was appealing.  It was quick, and motivated me to get rid of stuff that had been in my way for awhile.  

Shoes that have been well loved...the the point of being worn out:

Holiday Decorations that I assumed custody of during Momma Jenn's "60 items in 60 minutes" Challenge.  

Fitness DVD cases that have been strewn about my entertainment center since their purchase.  The DVD's now live with my other Fitness DVD's, in a space conscious DVD binder.  

Old Makeup/perfume/medication long past their expiration date...ewww!

Items that Ari cannot be trusted with:  Candles = setting himself on fire.  Aroma Therapy oils = oil all over my floor.

Wires that go to nowhere.

The Master Cleanse:  This book is evil and has been living under my couch for the past year.

Ugly purses that have been gifted to me...the tags are still on these guys!

Magazines that have piled up over the past 6 months.  I've given up hope that I will find the desire to dedicate a whole day to reading out dated magazines.  To the recycle bin!

Clothes...that Ari apparently doesn't want to see leave the house.

Why have I saved all my pillow and comforter bags?

What are some weird things you have been holding onto?  What do you guys throw away during spring cleaning?

Hibernation

My Christmas day was spent burrowed under a duvet with Ari.  I slept for 14 straight hours.  I didn’t check email. And aside from the triangle path from my bed to my couch to my bathroom back to my bed I didn’t move all that much either.

When I would wake up I would feel guilty for wasting such a crisp beautiful day wound into a ball under a pile of blankets and the fluff of Ari…then my head would become victim to a bombardment of “to do’s” for the work week ahead and I would immediately roll over and burrow deeper.  Attempting to hibernate my to do list away.  Or at the very least hide from it, cause the last place a to-do list would find me is in bed on Christmas Day.  Or so I assumed. 

Really since work began I have been feeling guilty about everything:

 

-Not spending time with friends

-Missing out on Zimm’s rehearsal dinner

-Being two hours late to meet my boyfriend on a Friday cause I was putting together a report

-My blog, my creative side, falling to the wayside

-The timing of my hip surgery

-Having to rely on everyone I neglected following my hip surgery

-Feeling responsible for my account’s holiday success 

All that guilt piling up can be exhausting.  And it was exhausting…and I was feeling guilty about catching up on rest my body was by all accounts demanding?  I was.

And then I had an epiphany.  Right there under the covers. 

I had become so obsessed with doing a good job I was failing miserably at everything.  At my friendships, in my relationships, in my recovery, even at the job I wanted to succeed at because I was making it the scapegoat for everything I couldn’t do and I was taking on responsibilities of others because I couldn’t say “No”.  I could say “No” to my own life but not “No” to the person who felt like going home at five and entitled to piling their work onto me.

I made a list right there in bed of everything I had to do...then I crossed out the work items that weren't actually my responsibility, then the stuff I didn't actually want to do...and then...well the list seemed a whole lot shorter.

I walked in on Monday with a whole new attitude.

An Ari-ism: The Home Doldrums

Being on crutches is akin to being at home when the power is out…you keep thinking of all the awesome things you could be doing-microwaving a peep, flushing the toilet, catching up on 8 hours of DVR’d “Barefoot Contessa”-but you can’t because the power’s out.  While on crutches I fantasized about long runs, going to the grocery store and navigating the aisles with ease, and in general, just leaving the apartment.

Instead, I laid on my bed, my couch, or my floor with only Ari for company. 

During the first few days of my confinement Ari clearly thought I was cramping his style and was realizing all the awesome things he could be doing…if only I wasn’t there to stop him…

Like:

Having “personal time” with his beloved’s delicates:

Eating an entire bag of cat food:

Dressing up in provocative costumes (or this may be what happens when your owner can't leave the house):

After a long period of confinement though your desire to do anything fun is replaced by the overwhelming need to do nothing except watch the bubbles go by and smother those who are accessible.

And then,once the bubbles and company is gone, you are left to yourself staring into space to consider your own mortality.

Needless to say Ari and I are glad I finally got the blessing to lose the crutches…and we can both go back to our usual activities. 

Air in the Tires

As frequent blog readers know, Momma Jenn is all kinds of “Cra-Cra”.  I used to feel the usual shame and mortification typical of a teenager about my Mum’s sexual statements and want to pour nitrogen in my ears, now I’ve taken in delighting in them so I can win in a game my siblings and I play of “I should be more messed up than you”…and I can post on the ol’ blog. 

Since the start of Fiscal Year 2012 at the “Dream Job” I have fallen into a hole.  A hole where friends and family only know I survive based on random bitching Facebook status’s.  I’m working a lot.  But I still find time to connect with the parental unit on my commute home from work if I leave after putting a measly 12 hour day. 

Big Bill answered on Tuesday and listened sympathetically to my diatribe about the hideous results of being competent and perked up when I mentioned that I didn’t even have time to fix my tire pressure.  Big Bill, sensing he was needed, launched into a 20 minute play by play on how to check my tire pressure, places in Austin I could go to fix it, and all the things that could cause my sinking tires.  I, being a girl, lost interest and proceeded to give a sequence of “Uh-ha’s” that could be considered signs of listening. 

My Mom couldn’t be bothered to fake it.  Impatient for her turn to talk to me, she chimed in from another phone and announced (clearly delighted with how gross she was going to be), “Jenna, you shouldn’t be worrying about this, after all, you have a boyfriend who I presume you are having sex with and performing favors for-hasn’t he heard of quid pro quo?

Both Big Bill and I started screaming, I couldn’t cover my ears cause I was driving.

But maybe she has a point.   

Control

Control

Oddly enough, when my doctor told me that they would have to “go in” I felt relieved.  My hip has been nagging at me persistently since March, and with one statement I was validated.  The pain I was feeling was not in my head, I was not a wimp.

My relief stopped when my surgeon began to describe at length what he was going to do.  I wanted to slam my hands over my ears and yell, “lalalalala-just do it”, but something about, “we are going to make two incisions, shave off pieces of your bone, and sew the tear together,” has a way of permeating my “la’s”, but the part that bothered me the most, is that I was going to be under.

For about two weeks I stewed on the idea of being “out” and completely and totally out of control and coming to hours later with no idea what had happened to my body. The fact that this is what bothered me the most speaks volumes about my control freak tendencies. 

My sister drove me to the hospital before the sun came up, and joined me in the room and a posse of nurses prepped me for surgery.  I was nervous, and when the anesthesiologist came in to dope me up I went into a tirade about my concerns.  He put something into my IV and I went drunk-it was like throwing back 6 shots drunk.  Then I was out.

I woke up with massive bandages surrounding my hip and waist. I had no clue what went down and what was under my bandages.  I was vaguely bothered, but I wanted three things:  to see my sister, to get out of there, and to eat guacamole. 

I got wheeled to her car and loaded up.  My sister asked me what I wanted to eat, I demanded guacamole.  She assumed I was drunk.  I probably still was. 

She accommodated my request and made me a massive bowl of guacamole once home, and I ate the whole thing, even swished my fingers around the rim to get every last bit of it.  And I was happy.  I drugged out, full of guac, and happy.

It wasn’t until now, thinking about it, that I realize what scared me the most about the surgery wasn’t the procedure itself, it was being out of control, and that once I let go of it, I was able to see what I really wanted.  Which apparently in that instance was guacamole, but I’m curious about what else I would want if I gave myself permission to let go and want it.    

Strength

On numerous occasions I may have quietly mentioned (alright, have a bitch fest to whatever hapless friend or family member accidently calls me on my commute home) about the demands of my new job.  When I left my old job I seemed to be under the delusion that despite getting a 50% pay bump I would only be required to give an extra 10-15% of effort.  Ha!

I am working harder than I have ever worked in my life.  There was about a 2 month stretch, and at least one day a week where I come home close to tears and the only thing that cheered (s) me up is watching Ari race around the apartment like he's training for Olympic sprints and watching Modern Family with Honey Badger while we make dinner (okay, he makes dinner, when its my turn I pick up take out cause the idea of cooking pushes me closer to the tears).

I'm a lot stressed out.

In part due to the high visibility from all levels of my organization and that every detail that goes missed-gets caught...and its always made evident who missed the detail.

I was distressed by even more scrutiny a month or so ago while prepping a presentation for a client.  I put in tons of hours, edited at least eight "final" versions of the presentation, and the night I flew into the clients headquarters, walked to my boss's hotel to work on the project "just a little more".

5 hours later it was go time.

The presentation went well, I was pleased.  Afterwards, I was standing in the lobby with my department's director and numerous other "key stakeholders" (Read:  Higher up the rung than I) with my suitcase ready to hop a cab to catch a flight back to the airport.

When the cab arrived, I was the first to march out the door, and my suitcase caught on the edge.

I yanked.

And the first thing I heard was a gasp.

Then I saw what I'd done.

My suitcase had caught on the door frame, and when I had yanked...I yanked out the frame.

It hung there suspended for a moment or so, with everyone staring.  And then, it crashed to the ground.  And bounced.

Security raced over, I stood there horrified, and my Director burst out laughing saying, "Jenna's the new secret weapon."

Apparently I'm stronger than I give myself credit for.