Mission Impossible: How to be a lady at work for 8 hours straight

First of all, wow. It's been awhile since any of us have posted. Man... a lot has happened. We spent some time together in a sunny locale; have each gone through personal triumphs and challenges. But that's all I'm going to say about that right now. I have a couple of questions to pose to the universe that pertain to my lady status. Specifically, my office lady status. I need help.

My problem, simply put, is that I don't know how to maintain my ladylike appearance for a whole 8-hour workday. It's not so much my demeanor that I'm concerned about - I start off a bit gravely and soften as the caffeine levels in my body bring me nearly to the point of convulsion, and then I level off for the rest of the day. It's mostly my appearance that I'm worried about. For whatever reason, regardless of how ironclad I feel wardrobe-wise in the morning, the facade starts to wear thin shortly after lunch and then I'm basically professionally threadbare by the time I drag myself out of here at 5 o'clock.

As per usual, I will accompany my sentiments with related photos that I have dutifully searched for on Google. This is how I feel when I come in every day - note: this is how I feel... not necessarily how I look. Because I would never wear a suit jacket. Ever.

Cool. Confident. In control.

I consider it a small miracle that I am able to achieve this because I am not at all a morning person and usually am putting my "look" together while I am in a state somewhat reminiscent of this:

Coffee. COFFEE NOW!

If all of my barely functional synapses are firing at a reasonable rate, I am usually able to pull together an outfit that is acceptable. My make-up routine is rather rote so that doesn't take very long, hair is usually not complicated and then I'm out the door with a full travel mug of go-go juice, ready for another 45 minute morning commute.

After said commute, I typically arrive to work feeling pretty good. Kind of like this lady:

Sure my jacket is slightly wrinkled from the seat belt, but otherwise I'm good right?

Things tend to stay this way for a couple of hours and several cups of coffee, then it mysteriously, but without fail, starts to fall apart.

My job is fairly predictable, so I'm not usually running around like a crazy person doing things that require athletic wear during office hours. But at the end of the day, I feel - and more to the point, look as though I've been put through the ringer. 

"My god - what happened to you at work today? Were you fighting off crafty marauders again? Saving the world? Swimming with piranhas?"

"Nope. Just made a couple copies and sent some emails." 

So my questions at this point are:

1. Am I supposed to adjust my wardrobe in any way when I arrive to work? To account for the natural phenomena that will occur while sitting at a desk for 8 hours like wrinkling and coffee stains?

2. If aforementioned adjustments are necessary, what are they?

Now in addition to my clothing transforming magically into a hobbit costume once its been on my body for a few hours, there is also the issue of makeup. This, I suppose, may speak to a more Emily Post sort of issue, but regardless it raises an important question that needs to be answered:

Am I supposed to re-apply any or all makeup in the middle of a work day?

This is important because my face melts while I am at work. Apparently. Not my flesh, but basically everything that I put on top of it, which is not very much at all. Refer back to the first photo; generally clean, relatively light makeup, but enough. Then, around 3 p.m., I turn into this:

My makeup has fallen and it can't get up.

Sometimes, I will re-apply lipstick but not usually. Whenever I do this I think of that whole "lipstick on a pig" thing that our nation's most reviled hockey mom said a couple of years ago and I refrain, choosing Chapstick instead. And I never, ever, reapply any other makeup... ever. Sometimes I'll use those Clean & Clear Oil Absorbing strips to address any shiny areas, but nothing more. Am I supposed to be doing more? And if so, what?!?!

The reason why I care about this at all is that I've started to get called into late afternoon meetings and some after-work engagements where it would be nice if I looked like a decent human being rather than something that got scooped up by a street sweeper. I've purchased fashion magazines, watched online segments about fashion by people who have good fashion, and I still can't seem to get it right. I feel like I'm constantly being bombarded with a slightly different version of this outfit, which I find to be completely crazy:

Who's the woolly mammoth sitting behind that desk? 

I mean, OMG - I'm so sorry. I love your jacket.

Bottom line, I don't do this well. Office fashion is hard. As always, suggestions welcome and encouraged.

Mavis: Mother Nature on Notice

Dear Mother Nature,

You have seven days to fix this.

Get to work.

Hugs,

Mav

Mavis: The Color Palate (sp?)

Did I spell 'palate' right? Is there a different spelling for the palate in your mouth and the palate that you put paint on? Help - I don't know.

or

?

Regardless, the palate I'm talking about is completely different. It's a color palate for my new colorful wardrobe. And it looks a lil' something like this:

That's 3 pieces. Including an accessory. Because my phone doesn't offer the highest quality resolution, I'll go ahead and tell you that what you're seeing is a pair of green (yes GREEN!) skinny dress pants, a purple shirt dress, and a red patent leather belt.

I don't plan on wearing these items all at once, but if I did I imagine I'd look like this:

Today I decided to wear the dress. All of these items came from Target because it's all I could muster during my 57-minute dash yesterday. I'd post a picture of the dress but I can't quite get the angle right... it's a sack. A colorful sack. I love it.

Paired with my self-taught semi-chic manicure:

I think I'm all colored out for this week. Tomorrow I will promptly return to my Communist attire so I can detox from all this color today.

Taking it one step at a time, people.

Mavis: Too Much and Too Little

Changing it up font-wise. Trying to see if I can get a different look going since I seem to be monopolizing our little corner of the blog universe. 

For anyone other than sisters that read this, know that there are 3 more people that are able to post here. One of them you've met (and she created the site; thank you Debbie) and the other 2 have not yet posted. I hate that I can't shake the urge to keep posting because everything I post is drivel, but I love... love, love, love blogging and can't seem to stop.

[Admitting one has a problem is the first step to curing oneself of said problem, right? Well I don't know if that's going to happen with me and my blogging obsession, but at least I've made it to Step 1.]

Worse than my fascination with posting my biz all over the webs is the compulsion to find somewhat topical photos on Google and post them here as well, to break up the text and make me giggle. There's nothing quite like a picture of a screaming baby to hammer home an otherwise bland point. 

Like, I'm pretty bored this morning.

So I search for clever photo.

Then I insert said photo:

... and instantly it's more relatable! 
So now I'm tired like this poor kid. 
"This carpet is boring. I'm just... over it."

As usual, I'm feeling chatty. A fellow sister availed me to a fantastic blog the other day and I've been obsessed with it ever since. I even read an entry out loud to my husband last night before we fell asleep. He didn't find it as amusing as I did, but at least he stayed awake long enough to listen to me read it with the enthusiasm of a TwiHard and intermittently interject with comments like, "See honey? You're not the only man who turns into a 500-degree oven at night? Isn't that awesome? Don't you feel BETTER?!?!" (Pretty sure he's never had a problem with his nighttime heatwave.)

But even more than the delightful posts about everyday life in the wonderful, wonderful Pacific Northwest, I find her fashion tutorials to be the most inspiring content. Which leads me to another admission that will hopefully set the stage for some kind of change in my life: I am a fashion coward.

Fashion is something that I have very strong opinions about.   But because I exhaust myself formulating opinions about other people's fashion all the time, most days I end up walking out of the house looking like a "before" version of a sad school teacher from TLC's "What Not to Wear." 

[ I can't even find a picture of bad office fashion on Google that does me justice. I might have to post a homegrown look. ]

[Let me think this over. ]

Okay... let's do this.

This is a "crazy" blouse and a pencil skirt. This is about as risky as wearing water wings in a toddler pool. But this is pretty standard.

<Snore>

Part of my problem is that my morning routine largely consists of being able to answer "yes" to the following very important questions:

1. Is there coffee?

2. Did I remember to put on deodorant?

3. Is there coffee?

4. Am I wearing pants?

So you can see how little emphasis is placed on being fashion-forward in my life. It's sad.

As you can imagine, this "work look" is pretty easy to achieve so I do it daily. It usually consists of 3 staple pieces - a very bland top of some sort, shoes and something to cover my butt. Either pants or a skirt. If I'm feeling extra lazy and can't even muster the mental commitment to choose 2 whole items of fabric clothing for myself, I'll wear a very non-offensive dress with no accessories.

My personal color palate is a solid mix of "don't look at me" and "back off." Black, white, neutral colors, minimal accessories... rinse, wash, repeat. 

I feel like accessories make me look like a pirate and that anything I see in a magazine won't look right on me because of my shape. So like all things I am fearful of, I choose to deal with them... not at all. Avoid, avoid, avoid.

However, because of this fab blog, I'm now re-thinking the 'pop of color.' I plan to shop during my lunch hour with the hope of finding one piece that I can easily integrate into my office wardrobe without having a panic attack. 

My next baby step will be the purchase of a fun accessory. When I am sufficiently satisfied that I can rock these items and still look like a normal person at work without being boring, I'll post a picture here.

Don't hold your breath, though. My ability to talk myself out of things is the stuff of legend. Chances are I will be in head-to-toe khaki tomorrow, but at least I'm going to try. 

And that's the most important part of the process.

Mavis: The Guilt Saddle

Something to ponder: Do you ever feel really guilty about being a jerk when you were younger? If so, what do you do about it? Is there anything that can be done about it?

For instance, maybe you laughed along when someone was getting picked on or perhaps you mistreated an ex. Maybe your name is Mavis and you did both of those things, and probably more.

Unfortunately, we can't all have one of those Billy Madison moments where we place a call years after the fact and then are magically forgiven for a past wrongdoing.

I love Googling pictures from the webs and posting them here. So. Much. Fun.

So what do you do?

I've thought about this and put myself in the place of the person who was wrong-done. I ask myself, if I had an opportunity to be wrong-undid, would I want that? And my answer to myself is always:

"Mavis, you beautiful bitch, everything that happens in this life happens for a reason. And no one can undo anything once it's done. Words may ease the pain of a past hurt but they won't change the outcome, and chances are, bringing it back up will re-open a wound that has healed considerably since you inflicted it. So get over yourself."

... or something along those lines. Which pretty much gets me out of ever having to consider apologizing to anyone. Which might make me feel better if I was a sociopath, but sadly, I'm not. Moving on.

I'm not looking for am AA sort of system of asking people for forgiveness/acceptance, etc. I don't need a verbal confirmation that it's "all good." Chances are if I'm even having this conversation with someone, it's not good at all. 

So in the end what I am selfishly searching for is a way to not feel so terrible about the really crappy things I did to a few people, that I no longer speak to, a long time ago. None of these offenses are truly awful, yet they weigh on my conscience. 

I suspect that maybe I carry guilt longer than most people. I don't exactly have this conversation with people everyday so I don't know what's considered a normal guilt sentence for an otherwise standard, 30-something woman. Is 10 years too long...? Not long enough?

Regardless, I feel like I've been wearing this guilt saddle for far too long and I'm ready to move on. 

Mavis: The Fitness Curse

Earlier this year, I started noticing weird body quirks. Some foods I ate tasted different, my intestines seemed to have grown tired and become overly sensitive, I had to rule out spicy foods completely and oddest of all was the fact that my knees started to squeak.

At least that's what they did at first. Like a cat toy.

Aren't I adorable?

At first, it was fun... like a party trick. I'd lay on the couch and stretch my legs out and then bend them until my knees touched my chest and listen to their delightful cry. There was no pain - just entertainment. My husband was treated daily to my requests for him to "listen to my knees." He didn't enjoy it as much as I wanted him to, but that was okay because it soon got worse.

A few weeks later, my knees became crunchy. 

Hmmm... let me try again.

Better.

When my knees became crunchy, I got worried. I'm not old, but I felt like I was 90. Without even realizing it, I found myself groaning out loud every time I had to go up a flight of stairs or - God forbid - sit on a toilet seat. It was the sound (and now pain!) that accompanied my attempts at the latter that motivated me to call an actual knee doctor to find out WTF was wrong with me.

$250 for an x-ray copay later, he tells me I have "weak knees." Cute. But what's really the problem?

No, seriously. My diagnosis was weak knees.

He tells me to go to physical therapy which I promptly refuse since there is no injury to rehabilitate, only my damaged ego, so he gives me some exercises to do at home. I immediately set to the task of strengthening my knees. Fantastic!

A few weeks in and I'm feeling pretty good. Coincidentally, during this time I'm working a lot and not making it to the gym very much. So I'm pretty much just doing the knee stuff at home in the evenings and sitting on my arse all day at work. 

The occasional attempt to be active unfortunately resulted in an even worse fate - rusty knees.

 Effffffffffffffffffffff...!

Word to the wise - rusty knees don't work. They simply don't bend. It's like they just give up. Like an insolent child. 

Hope you weren't planning to bend your knees today, Frankenstein.

Lucky for me, I am very stubborn. After a few days of grunting around, I became determined to get my rusty knees working again. So I literally had to go to the gym and work out for 2 hours alternating between an elliptical machine and a stationary bike. And although painful at first, eventually I experienced a breakthrough and at some point, everything was working again... just like it had before anything started squeaking. 

But, as with most things, there's a catch: I can't stop working out or my knees will lock up again. 

It's the only conclusion that I have come to that makes any sense. And it's like a death sentence for me because I hate fitness. I really do. The only reason I work out is because of the love of my husband. Seriously - that's it, the only reason. Because he wants me to be healthy and be his wife for a long time, I work out. Now if I stop - for any reason - my knees will rust over and I'll become a hideous beast.

I had to change this pic. Isn't this so scary...? But he was, arguably, the best Dracula ever. Not that I want to be him or anything. 

So I suppose in the end, fitness is all we really have on our side to delay the aging process. And even with it, it only slows it down a little bit - it won't prevent it from happening. And this is pretty much what every gym teacher - and my parents, and my husband, and my healthy friends, and people on TV - have always said, yet I never wanted to believe them. And now I see it. I'm living it. 

And it totally sucks.

Mavis: Red Wine Attacks!

It's Friday. I'm feeling pretty good. A little hungover, but whatever. Nothing like a little red wine mouth fuzz and some Wham! on Pandora to make for a pleasant end of the work week.

I've had the distinct pleasure of having most Fridays off for the past month. A gift from my employer; the kind of gesture that hearkens back to my mom's oft-used adage of "not looking a gift horse in the mouth." Today is my first Friday back in as many weeks as I have fingers on my left hand (5) and although it's a little jarring, I think I'll be okay. I really like my job so it's not a big deal to hang out here most days.

Most days in the office, I feel like a mix between this:

and this:

... neither of which is a bad thing. This week, however, I feel kind of like this:

... which is fine, but again, between the slight hangover and the fact that it's Friday and I'm not chillin' on my couch watching garbage television, it's been a little interesting. Imagine a juggler... a good one... Howie Mandel. (He can juggle, right?) Anyway, imagine that he's mostly been hanging out on his front porch all summer yelling at kids and drinking Old English. Then you throw him 8 tennis balls his way and expect him to juggle at his best. Not gonna happen... at least, not right away. It's ridiculous to expect that. Anyway, that's me today, except no tennis balls... just lots and lots of tasks. And of course, blogging.

Let's take a second to chat about how I can't handle wine anymore. Last night for instance, I had a friend over for gab and nom-noms. (Chats and food.) Of course she brought wine because a) she's an excellent friend, and 2) it's the mannerly thing to do. A white and a red - we chose red. The bottle was an anomaly... "Ghost Pines", yet the picture was clearly of 2 maples... whatever. Misleading label not withstanding, it was delicious so we drank it. (Is there wine that isn't delicious? If so, I've not had it.)

We also ate food. Strawberries, chips, delicious corn salsa, crackers, and port cheese.

And we didn't even finish the bottle. We each had 2 glasses...? Yet here I am at 11 a.m. the next day with mouth furries and a headache. Why?

Is it because red wine is potent and my aging body cannot handle it? Is it because I did not have enough 'real food' in my belly to cushion my gentle intestines from the explosion of potency that is red wine? Is it that I am allergic to red wine in some way? (Man I hope not.)

Anyway, Happy Friday.

Mavis: A ‘Be Strong’ Nancy

When it comes to supporting my partner, I try really hard to put on my bat suit and prepare to go into battle with the vicious thugs that come after him - masked as fear, uncertainty and insecurity. Sometimes I defeat them, sometimes I don’t. But I always try, because I’m a ‘Be Strong Nancy’.

That’s what I’ve nicknamed myself in light of the development of this alter-ego; someone that I transform into at least twice a week. The ‘be strong’ part is pretty self-explanatory; I have to take a deep breath, put on a brave face, and show determination, strength and certainty because that is what my partner lacks in these moments and needs to see in me in order to have the faith to locate those things within himself again. I have to stand beside him as we meticulously review his passions and goals, identify the roadblocks that stand in the way and the challenges that slow his progress, and then create plans to navigate around these things so he can get back on course with confidence and achieve his dream.

It takes a lot to be strong like this on a regular basis. The superhero analogy works here because it takes everything out of me emotionally, physically, and mentally to be a Be Strong Nancy – like how Iron Man gets depleted without that weird radioactive fireball in his chest, or how the Hulk…. Okay, so I’m not well-versed on superheroes but I’m pretty sure he at least takes a nap after he goes ape-shit on everyone. So yeah, it’s draining.

The ‘Nancy’ part comes from me just kind of being a wuss at heart. Sure, I can be tough and talk up a big game o’ smack with the best of ‘em, but at the end of the day I’d much rather be kind of a quiet, mousy wallflower… who doesn’t draw attention to myself or start fights or generally stir up chaos and mayhem. I assume that most people are good and don’t screw others over on purpose and yes, I know that is naïve, but it’s the best I’ve got for now. I want to be happy in my life and encourage my partner to be happy as well, so I’m not ready to give in to a life of thinking people are always out to mistreat us simply as a means of being cautious about everything and everyone that we encounter. But it gets increasingly frustrating when you see that some people are perfectly content to abuse others – and to do it often. I don’t understand people like that and I doubt I ever will. I don’t want to. I don’t want to listen to rationalizations about how throwing people under the bus is “what you have to do to get ahead”, accept that passive aggression is “just the way people communicate nowadays” and agree that formulating strategies about how to deal with others somehow makes more sense that just being honest and well-intended and not being a dick all the time. I hate what we’ve become as a society sometimes… a group of toadies that hide in the shadows and launch attacks on our peers and wait for shit to blow up so we can either point and laugh or shake our heads in shame, like the way we choose to treat people has nothing to do with the fact that good people with good ideas and good leadership capabilities fail miserably because they’re not willing to be corrupt in order to succeed.

So until such a time comes when good people can be successful on their merits and by playing fair, I will continue to be the best Be Strong Nancy I can because I owe it to my partner and to the world to do my best to make sure that the good guy wins – at least once or twice.

(This blog was partially inspired by the fact that The Dark Knight Rises comes out really soon which is totally awesome.)

Mavis: Losing It

I hate mouth sounds. 

Repeat - I HATE MOUTH SOUNDS.

Mavis: Rain? Yes please.

I moved to a new place about... hmmm... 8 months ago. It's not entirely new (I lived in a city nearby a handful of years ago) and it's in my home state. But it's new to me in a very exciting way that has me constantly hovering over the television and interwebs... and that is because of its interesting weather phenomena.

I don't know what happened to my interests as far as the journey from what they used to be (drink specials, cigarette prices, celebrity gossip) to what they are now (drink specials, politics, weather, and celebrity gossip), but regardless of what they happen to be on a given day, they require my commitment and passion. My friends have much more interesting and compelling interests than I do as a general rule, but the one thing that I do have in abundance is gusto. And on a daily basis, I set my sights set firmly on the local weather and I feast. For at least 15 minutes or until someone starts talking about Suri Cruise and then I'm instantly distracted, like a dog watching cars in traffic.

I rely on a number of sources to receive my meteorological data. First and foremost is Al Roker of course. Second to that is my local weatherman, who despite his age and general lack of enthusiasm, is frequently reliable with his reports. Finally, the interwebs. Weather.com of course, but I also occasionally partake of the random amateur who may happen to blog about clouds and weather systems that will likely affect my area. I am fascinated by the weather and nearly every day without fail, I awake to the hope of rain. I have become obsessed with rain. Not this kind of rain...

but THIS kind of rain:

I like my weather nice and severe. Let's not mess around with the pithy drizzles; let's bring on the real stuff... the hard stuff. The winds, the hail, the floods... all of it. I mean, I want my weather to bring its A-game every time otherwise I'd just prefer that it stay pleasant (read: BORING) outside and not tease me.

I'm a bit disappointed today. All of the reports I read earlier discussed at length the extreme heat (boring) but also the high likelihood of intense storms because of the humidity. So far nothing. This is very disappointing indeed.

Mavis: Nearly 50.

My husband turned 42 yesterday. 42 is a very good number according to my sister... because 4 is divisible by 2 and both numbers are even, safe and solid... as such descriptors make everything okay. To most people, 42 signals early forties.

To my husband, 42 means "nearly 50."

Well, at least he's consistent. Last year he was "9 years away from 50." He was never, by his own admission, 41 years old. As each year passes, he is simply a year closer to being 50. 

I'm not really sure what will happen when he reaches his 50th year. I assume it will be like this:

Whereas when I turn 50, I will want to have a huge party and do back-bends in fringed frocks with Jack Nicholson, like this rockin' bitch:

I don't know why people fear getting older. I don't. I'm mostly looking forward to getting older. Here is a short list of awesome rewards that we will get we get old:

1. Retirement $

2. Longer naps

3. Better parking

It's important to consider the good with the bad. So as my husband scrunched up his sour but handsome 42-year old face this weekend to blow out his birthday candles, I thought hey man - this isn't really that bad. According to Vogue, 42 is the new toddler. And given his youthful appearance, impish enthusiasm and adorable addictions to regular fitness, a healthy diet and the occasional ice cream and doughnuts, I'm sure his 42 is even less offensive than most other people's 42. Yet he fears old age as if it lurks on the other side of every door he opens, waiting to drag the life out of him. Perhaps it's this perpetual fear that keeps him so young.

Anyhoo, cheers to you my love as you continue on your rapid ascent to ... 50.

(Just kidding.)

Debbie: Space

We are in space ya'll!!

Humans.  Humans are in space. Like ALL THE TIME.  And no one seems to give a shit. 

Did anyone realize a crew, who had been in space for six months, returned on the first of July?  Do we care?

http://www.nasa.gov/multimedia/videogallery/index.html?media_id=147562761

There are over 100 NASA missions currently.  Do we know what any of them are?  Why is there soooooooooo much coverage of Tom Cruise's divorce, and NOTHING on the fact that NASA is shooting 3 more people into orbit tomorrow!

I went to a RADIOLAB performance this past month, and was blown away by the 3rd act when Jad was interviewing an astronaut, who had been to space 20 TIMES.  20!  He recounted a near death spacewalk, which I never read about in the papers.  This American and his Russian partner were locked out of the space station for over 8 hours, and were either going to die of carbon monoxide poisoning OR boil in their suits when their AC units gave out.  Why is this not on the damn news!?

I suggest we all get a little more WOWED by the fact that we have evolved into creatures that can leave our home planet.  

Debbie: The Dreamer

I'm a dreamer.

My dreams are vivid and epic.  And I've always given them weight in my waking life.  I decided to take a Dream Analysis course through NYU's continuing education program, this summer.  After the first class, I thought about dropping the course, because I didn't feel like I was learning anything new about dream theories.  As I'm prone to bailing on just about every commitment in my life, I saw this as a challenge to "stick it out."  I have reluctantly returned every week since.

The dogmatic approach of my professor to categorize dreams began to shake my belief in my own dreams.  This week's class, however, was a baptism....me, born-again...into my dreams. 

I shared, with the class, a dream I had on July 4th, which I will recount here:

I am on a train, as it rumbles along a stretch of tracks parallel to a city, which lies along the sands of a beach.  The city is a barrier to the ocean, but it appears almost two dimensional and made from cardboard, soft orange glows of light are visible in the windows.  I somehow know, that the city is under a power restriction and is only allowed 4 hours of electricity a day, which includes the rail.  So, I know the journey is not long, because it can only take 4 hours at the most.  There are co-workers and students on the train, but I only notice Lewis' presence.   He's busy socializing and I'm busy wondering about the school and classes that lay ahead.

When we arrive at school, the dream jump-cuts to a whaling dock on the water's edge.  I am bundled in a big parka, standing on the cement dock with two men on either side of me, about 40 feet apart.  Each man has a rope in his hand that is attached to a pulley system 30 feet in the air.  At the end of the man's rope on my right, is a large wooden whale.  It's constructed poorly, and at first I think it's the carcass of a whale, but I soon realize it is just weak patchwork of different wood materials.  The man on my left holds a rope with a real-life Eskimo in a kayak, attached to the other end of the rope.   They both use the pulley system to dunk their respective objects in the water.  I think to myself, I must catch a fish and I'm not sure this whale is the best object to be fishing near.

I shoot off a spear, hitting a 5 foot long fish, immediately.  With the rope, that is still attached to the spear, I pull the fish onto the dock, about 60 feet in front of me.  Suddenly, a small Japanese man runs over to the fish and starts hacking at the tail.  I realize the fish is still alive, and I'm very angry with the man.  I run over to him, see to large gashes in the fish's tail, and instruct him to kill the fish before inflicting any more pain.  He guts the fish, and then cuts the fish up onto two plates of sushi.

I take the two plates and walk to a room adjoining the docks.  Inside is a business man, tall and dark, and another man who is Robin Williams, although he doesn't look like Williams.  I serve each of them the plates of fish.  The businessman is very pleased and gives me a rolled $20 bill.  I'm thrilled with my tip and more so with his approval.  I ask if there is anything else I can get him, but he replies no and thanks me, again.

Elated, I return to the school classroom, where I should have gone when I got off the train.  My sister is waiting for me in the classroom at a desk.  She points to the desk next to her, where a notebook and book are laying, and she says I'm late, and that I have missed part of the lesson.  She tells me to catch up quickly and turn to the correct page in the book.  Lewis is there, standing.  I turn to him and he hugs me.  I feel safe and at peace and I want to stay snuggled in his chest where it's quite.
(the end)

After sharing this dream with the class, my professor had me act out a Jungian "Interview Technique," where I ask questions to the archetypes in my dreams, and I answer as the archetype, as well.  It was awkward, as such a thing might be in front of 12 strangers (12 strange, strangers), but I discovered an ability to articulate my dreams on a new level.  This made me appreciate them, once again, for their intuition and complexity.

Self discovery... I'm a believer again!

Mavis: A Lack of Cool

I probably stopped being cool officially about 6 years ago. I think everyone has a coolness threshold and that at some point, you reach it and after that, there's just no way you're going to be cool ever again. Unless you're this guy...

I can't say for sure whether I was ever cool by anyone's definition other than my own, so I guess a better way of starting this is to say that about six years ago, I stopped doing cool shit. As an adult, you just can't get away with doing cool shit forever. After awhile, someone - inevitably - will give you a sideways look or call the cops and then it's all over.

In 2006, as a 28-year old adult, I got drunk at a Sunday brunch and ended up swimming with 3 other grown-ups in a "water feature" in a garden that I ended up getting married in five years later. I should add that this garden was at my place of employment, so it was extra dangerous. Under the influence of more mimosas and PBR than I can even remember, this seemed very cool. From the outside, however, I'm sure this looked very not cool. But I didn't care. (Coolness is underpinned by not caring about anything.)

This event marked my last hurrah of public coolness. Now I only do cool shit occasionally and always with stipulations - in safe places, among friends, and with enough cash to pay for a cab home if necessary. Either that or a pregnant friend who can DD.

Not all people slide officially into lameness at age 28. Coolness thresholds are fluid and there are many factors that determine when someone will reach their limit - age, occupation, geographical location, personal style, overall attitude, general hipness, knowledge and application of current trends, etc.

For me, all of these factors work against my attempts at coolness. I don't even know why I try anymore. I'm not convinced that I'm trying to be cool as much as coolness in general still interests me. I'm simply not ready to leave the cool party. I'm like the weird, uninvited but highly intoxicated guest at a party who passed out on the couch, doesn't have a ride home, has thrown up and is annoying to probably everyone.

It's sad.

So since my current life factors render me too pathetic to attempt coolness on any sort of grand scale, I try to dip my pinky toe in hipness every now and then and it usually gets me in trouble. I say all of this because the other day I lamely attempted to integrate slang into the workplace. I told my boss to "slow his roll." He looked at me like this:

 Even in these very small moments of attempted coolness, I fail. 

Debbie: Audience

There are a lot of people on this planet. A LOT.

It seems obvious, and especially living in nyc where I rarely claim any personal space, you think the notion of being alone would cease to exist. Yet, nyc is probably the loneliest place I've ever lived. And I know we can all relate to the pangs of lonliness even when we're sleeping next to a partner.

It's that lack of understanding, or "knowing" someone outside yourself that affirmed, for me, that no one gets me. And I AM alone in my own head.

However, last night I went to a variety show at Littlefield in Brooklyn, and I discovered that perhaps we aren't as alone as I assume.
There were comedians, rappers, authors, illustrators, singers, and vaudeville.  Some people were my kin, and some performers were alien to my good senses.
The big revelation was during the cabaret song about cats falling in slow motion.  I have no idea what this performance was about, but I'm pretty sure one person in that audience was thrilled by it. I concluded, in this heavily populated planet, that we all have an audience. people waiting and ready to hear our ideas and see our talents.  The last act concluded the show by saying, do what you want and you will succeed. 

I say, do what you want... there is an audience waiting.

Debbie: Le Binge

I binge.  


I don't purge, but I binge.  And not always on food.  In fact, mostly never on food.  (Although, there is the occasional cookie or macaroni binge)


I binge on books, blogs, podcasts, tv series, movies, and culture in general.  But it is cyclical.  I never take small doses of anything.  I always wipe out an entire section of pop culture in a week, and then move on to the next.  Somehow, I can multitask in every other aspect of my life, except the information/infotainment/entertainment aspect of life.  I have recently wrapped a binge on the Hunger Games book series.  This is for another blog, about juvenile writing hijacking hollywood, and therefore plunging me into required reading of said books because I work in said industry.  (I'll postpone that binge topic.)  


My new binge this week is Louis C.K.'s Foxx tv series.  I've been holding off on indulging in Louis, because I listened to a podcast of him recounting some bad blood surrounding the series.  Since, I could no longer recount that bad blood (surely forgotten, because I binged too hard on some podcast series and only retained about 2% of information), I decided it was time to give Louis a try.  I'm already on the second season, and I feel the need to plug Season 2 Episode 2 "Bummer/Blueberries."  


This episode includes a scene that literally had me laughing for about 1 minute straight. I don't laugh out loud at a lot of things, I'm a tough audience.  However, Louis captures the insanity of living in NYC so well.  SPOILER.  The scene is Louis walking down the street, on the way to a date, surrounded by people, as one usually is on the streets of New York.  When suddenly, he hears the wild ramblings of a crazed homeless man.  When he turns around, the homeless man runs straight at Louis screaming.  Louis dodges his tackle by pushing him into the street, where the man is hit by a garbage truck and his head pops off.  


The editing of this short hit and pop, is priceless.  I'm laughing now!  I don't usually have a sick sense of humor, but honestly, this scene IS a possible scenario in NY.  This could, and probably has, happened multiple times in this city.  I can also appreciate being the target of crazies.  If there is someone crazy on the train, or crazy in the restaurant, or crazy on the street, you can bet your ass they are staring right at ME, concocting a way to drum up senseless, loud and one-directional banter with me.  


I suggest everyone jump on the Louis C.K. binge, and I welcome more binge suggestions, for next week.


-D2
(enjoy a little Louis and Dr. Katz)