A Circle K on the moon...

Growing up my dad always held the record for the most unique and bizarre ideas of anybody in our family. My brother, Jake would probably disagree (he was a close second on the "what the heck are you talking about" scale) but I still think my dad was king of odd tangents.

I can remember many a dinners discussing Circle K's on the moon and sentences that consisted of,"yeah and then...and then...and then!" With each "and then" getting more and more insane then the last. Perhaps it was the beer talking or just the release from a long stressful day, but my dad always had a way of turning a normal conversation into a full on dream land.

I loved when he did this. And I would jump at the chance to add to the list of incredible "and thens." The older I got the more creative (or more insane) my thoughts and ideas became. Until eventually my and thens" took a back seat to my actual dreams. Or shall I say they turned into more attainable/ less bizarre "and thens." Instead of Circle K's on the moon I dreamed of dancing on Broadway, writing a book, writing for a magazine etc. What had started as a fun, dinner time escape, if you will, quickly turned into the only way I knew how to think.

Every thought was incredible. Every journey through my dreams and others dreams was invigorating. I began to dream so much that I often didn't feel real. Most days were spent swimming and sifting through the endless possibilities my mind allowed me to create. It's quite incredible, really, where your brain allows you to visit.

In my dreams I've backpacked through Europe, rescued survivors in Haiti, uncovered corruption and gone on to win a Nobel Peace Prize, re-built a city, owned my own business, written a screenplay, danced as if my life would end if I didn't, fully adopted my creative side, fully adopted my analytical side, become a psychologist, solved a crime, been in a crime, won the lottery, been in a movie, adopted a child, opened an animal shelter, been the strong woman I know I am, let go of my selfish ways, got my doctorate, cried and laughed with an intensity I know not, and on and on and on.

Some may say not to waste time dreaming but to just do. And for the most part I agree. There's a sign at my work that says, "ideas without action are only dreams." It's true. I cannot argue it but we cannot completely discredit dreams. Without them we don't have ideas. And sometimes even if they cannot be fulfilled or will not, they can still take you to a place you never knew existed. Creating a dream is like traveling the depths of your soul, finding your place, your purpose and your passion. It's an incredible journey in itself.

And because of that I will continue to create dreams. And I will fight to fulfill most of them. But some, I know, are meant to stay forever in the walls of my imagination, inspiring me like no book or pep talk or rally can.

Keep dreaming.

Obsessive

It's Monday, 4 days before Christmas, 1 day before I have a week off and 2 hours until I get to enjoy a holiday cocktail at my husband's Christmas party. And I'm. restless.

As I sit here obsessively checking the same 3 websites I frequent Monday through Friday all I can think about is getting out of here! My heart's racing, my mind whirling, I cannot sit still and yet there's nothing for me to do. What's with today? Is it the dreaded Monday blues? The excitement of Christmas looming around the corner? Or possibly the thrill of being a part of my best friend's winter wedding that has me dripping with restlessness only a vacation can cure?

No, I'm just obsessive.

Blame it on a job that leaves me less than engaged. Blame it on a year filled with weddings and babies and marathons that has kept me going and going and going throughout 2009. Either way, I've come to realize I HAVE to have something on the horizon. Something to plan, perfect, or point out. Something to obsess over. And today, there...is... nothing.

On Friday I crossed off another obsession on my list. For over a month I put all of my efforts and energy into figuring out a way to be a part of the Napa to Sonoma Half Marathon in San Francisco. Days before registration even opened I was on the website researching prices, medals, events, locations and everything I could to make the registration process easier. Then when registration finally opened I literally went on the website daily and pretended to sign up. PRETENDED. DAILY. This went on for a good month. I was waiting on my husband's input to actually sign up. Money and scheduling was a concern. Finally a few friends of mine emailed me that they had signed up and that I should too.

Let the obsession begin.

For two days I plotted and planned how this run and trip could work. I firmly confronted my husband demanding we make a decision by last Friday. Registration was 90% full and if we didn't sign up for it now we'd have to wait another year to be able to enjoy the race and San Francisco.

Thursday night the decision was made. It would be our vacation.

San Francisco here we come! I signed up Friday morning. At this point the registration was simple. I had already filled out the form several times before, including my husbands information so all I had to do was check a few boxes for t-shirt sizes and we were in. My fingers typed at a speed I didn't recognize. I felt as though I was in a race against myself. Could I type fast enough before it closed on me? You bet I could. My fingers went faster. "just get there!" I chanted as if I were already in the race, a mere mile from the finish line. And suddenly I had completed the task! Whew! You made it! You're registered!

What a relief! It felt so good to finally rid myself of that obsession.

Until today, when I have nothing left to obsess over. The race isn't until July. I've done all of my Christmas shopping. I've done everything I can do for the wedding. I did my long run last night for another marathon I am running. Now I wait. wait. wait.

Maybe I'll obsess over the waiting. Yes, I think I will.

And then there was candy

On the 3rd floor of a dingy, old advertising building sits a giant, gumball-esque candy machine. And in that candy machine sits bin after bin of the chewy, gooey, chocolatey, cavity inducing stuff kids yearn for.

Free to any and all that have access to the building, this candy machine is one of the few perks of a business saturated with unhappy employees. The candy brings an unexpected excitement to the lifeless hallways. "They just refilled the candy bins!" employees exclaim as they awake from their computer coma and dash out of their seats, running towards the elevators and stairs trying to be the first to arrive as if to show off their treasure.

The candy machine first appeared before Halloween. A gift from a client, that employees thought would only stick around for the celebrated candy holiday. But month after month it has remained and day after day it is refilled with different delights even the most ho-hum candy enthusiast cannot resist. From Holiday themed candy like the miniature candy canes to the not-so-traditional carmel chew, this deliverer of candy has become the office saviour.

And so it was mine, yesterday around 2. "I'm starving" I thought to myself. I can't go to lunch yet. My co-workers are all out so I must wait while my stomach screams at me for sustenance. Ahhh! What do I do? Vending machine? Boring. Candy machine? Of course.

Caramel chew, mini Nestle Crunch, mini Candy Cane, Twizzlers, Strawberry Laffy Taffy. Down the gullet in a matter of minutes. I feel ashamed. As if I've cheated on my lunch with a smaller, less healthy and satisfying version of itself. But I am surprisingly full and wanting more. I refrain. My heart is already racing and my vision seems slightly blurred. Oh candy, what you do to me!

But despite it's shaky affect on me the candy machine has proved it's purpose. For a 5 o'clock sugar fix or a hold-me-over-til-lunch snack, this office rallies around it's candy machine. It's our champion. Our trusted friend. A reliable source that will always be there. I cannot remember a day without it and to be frank, I don't want to.

F Writing

A letter to writing for constantly torturing me.

Dear Writing,

You have let me down. Your arduous process complete with perfect grammar, flow, creativeness and thought provoking intensity makes me cringe. Your constant demand for my soul is exhausting. Your criticism is deathly.

How dare you make me feel this way. How dare you make me question my ability and spread polarizing fear throughout my being only to continue to taunt me with your captivating allure. How dare you pull me in while simultaneously casting me out into the depths of insecurity and self-depreciation.

Writing, you are a tease. You lead me on.

Writing, I have decided to quit you. We're too complicated for each other. Goodbye.

***********************************************************

Dear Writing,

I need you. You need me. Please come back...

Jena

27

As I rapidly approach my 27th year of life I can't help but feel like I am again at the awkward age of 14. No, I don't have braces, my skin isn't dotted with pimples, and I'm not still trying to figure out how to wear makeup and do my hair (ok I AM still trying to figure out how to do my hair) but I do feel just as lost. And I don't mean I am trying to fit into a clique or figure out my body. I mean I feel like I am at a weird place where young adulthood slowly ends and maturity begins. As 30 lurks just around the corner I can't help but be hyper aware of my age.

First of all, let's get one thing straight. I DO NOT think 27 is old. I don't think 30 or even 40 is old. But I do believe the years and stages leading up to 30 are quite boggling. I suppose every age has it's interesting moments. My parents would probably agree with this. I'm sure my terrible two's and pre-teen years, amongst others, were very memorable for them. But for me the realization that life was changing didn't hit until I went to college. And even the thrill and excitement of independence stood in the way of any fears or realizations that I was getting older. It really wasn't until I turned 25 that I suddenly noticed my age. 

I used to look at 25 and think, "now that's a great age" Right in between it all. Not caught up in the craziness that is college and  yet not old enough to retire every evening at 9:00. You're career is in full swing and you have the world at your fingertips. Perfect! Or so I thought. On my 25th birthday a friend greeted me to the glorious age of 25 with this, "welcome to the downside of 25." There it was. The downside of 25? As I sat there pondering what was supposed to be a joke, I couldn't help but completely agree with this saying. I suppose subconciously I believed 25 was the cut off age where your youthful, fun, spontaneous self ended and responsibility, bordem, health issues, and early bed times set in. This was the beginning of the end (dramatic) But not so fast. I've never been one to cry (until recently) over the inevitability of turning another year older. And turning 25 wasn't going to change that. I felt free and excited about the future of 25 and there were no real signs that 25 was going to be my nemesis age. My skin hadn't started to sag or collect wrinkles, I didn't have any ailing body parts, my mind was just as sharp as it always had been and I still felt like I was the youngest person in a room. I quickly convinced myself there was no downside to 25. I'd be always be the young one...wouldn't I?

No, not really.

The other day a girl I work with had just celebrated her birthday and my boss excitedly asked her how old she had just turned. With a long disgusted sigh she replied, "ugh I'm old now. I'm 24" "24!" I screeched as my voice hit a pitch I wasn't sure it was capable of hitting. "you're not old!" I declared and went on to mention my upcoming 27th birthday. You see I work in a predominately youthful office. Everybody, for the most part, is in their 20's so it's not unusual to have people as young as 22 walking the halls. BUT I just thought (or didn't think) that the majority of the people I worked with were closer to my age or at least I liked to believe that they were all aging with me. And that (next to the "downside of 25" comment) was one of the first moments I recognized myself  as an "older" individual

I am no longer the youngest person at my job or at a bar or anywhere for that matter. And quite frankly it's weird. I feel like I'm in age purgatory. Sometimes I still feel 15, goofy, immature, scared and confused where other times I feel like I am 35--job, husband, responsibility, maturity. 27 has me boggled! And not to mention the fact that I no longer feel the youngest or look the youngest and that's because I'm not the youngest anymore! Plus, my skin HAD started to change, life WAS more complicated and I was TIRED quite frequently. Maybe there is a downside to 25. 

Or maybe it's the upside. They say 30 is the new 20 and I'm sure they're right. Or at least I hope they're right. I do feel that age has taken me to a place where I can stand up for things more easily, be more fearless and more honest about what I am thinking. But I do feel a little less spunky than I used to be. Maybe it's society or just my own age-related ideals that make me feel the stresses of getting older. And I have to admit there is a weird realization that occurs as you creep towards the age of babies, mortgages and car pools. But I do look forward to all of those things (even the mortgage) because it means I've grown and changed and progressed. And to me that is more important than any number. 

But what do I know?  I'm just a hopeful 27-year old!

Supermarket Tales

I need to find a new place to spend my lunch hour. On occasion I head to Pottery Barn or Pier 1 to browse the stemware selections and huge array of glass and ceramic vases and candle holders. But usually I end up at Publix. And not just any Publix, the same Publix every-single-day. I go there so much so that the staff and I are on a "hey how are you" basis. And it's not a "hey how are you" I'm following the Publix work code by really making your "shopping a pleasure" It's the "hey how are you? I see you everyday in here and it'd be silly not to acknowledge you from here on out" At first I felt very much loved. Everybody said hello. The guy who stalked the yogurt would alert me when they got in a bunch of "Dannon vanilla" as he came to find out I bought several a week. The men that worked in the produce aisle were so friendly and jokingly asked me why I always needed so many bananas. The only part of the Publix staff that I thought never noticed me or never cared that I was in their supermarket everyday were the cashiers. Until one day (I don't remember why) I mentioned being there a lot and one kind gentlemen said, "oh yeah, i know!" Sigh.

It wasn't until the yogurt guy stopped me and started to have a "real" conversation with me that I became a little skeptical. I can't quite remember the topic but I think it'd had to do with advertising majors becoming stockers at Publix. Hmmmm. I could sense the negative nelliness in his voice. I could tell  he was one of those guys that if I let him he'd talk to me for hours about his shortcomings in life. It wasn't a terribly awkward conversation but awkward enough for me to feel slightly uncomfortable. Not serial killer uncomfortable but creepy stalker/he was kinda hitting on me uncomfortable. Damn. Now I had to avoid him.

Then there was this one particular produce guy who always paid me a little more attention that the others. I knew he was on the verge of a flirtatious move so when he stopped me one day and asked me why I never brought him lunch I knew I'd have to avoid him now too. It's not that he said anything overly flirtatious or inappropriate but I knew where it was going and I knew eventually I'd feel real uncomfortable.  By the way I responded with, "How can I bring you lunch when I am here to buy my own lunch?" or something like that. Then I walked away.

Staff awkwardness aside, there's always some kinda of random weirdo at this particular Publix. In particular there is this man probably in his late 30's whom I've seen in there about 4 times who constantly likes to hit on the women shopping. He first hit on me before I was engaged. And then again when I was engaged. And then stared me down in the parking lot the other day when I was leaving. He clearly does this to a lot of women because he can't remember which ones he's already hit on. In fact one day while browsing the deli section I spotted him chatting with another woman. I giggled. This poor woman. But she seemed to enjoy his conversation. He was definitely a chatterbox (I knew from experience) and she was either truly interested or just being friendly like I had been two of the three times we ran into each other (I"m pretty sure there's no running into this man. I think he stakes women out). The deli man must've noticed me staring at them and says, "I've seen this guy hit on three other women while he's been standing here" "yeah" I says, "he's hit on me before too! Once with his kid" What is with this Publix!!!

But yesterday, hands down, had to be the most interesting conversation I've had with a Publix patron. Again I was at Publix trying to decide what I wanted for lunch. Usually I get my fruit, maybe some yogurt and go right to the frozen entree aisle for a lean cuisine. But yesterday I wanted something different. Something fresh. I'm trying to be really aware what I put in my body these days. I'm not sure how successful I've  been but yesterday I knew I didn't want the sodium from the lean cuisine and everything else I picked up seemed to have tons of artificialness and weird ingredients. So I opted for turkey, cheese and some V8 soup (sodium I know but a lot less than I would have consumed). I ordered the Publix turkey (cheaper) and was about to take a bite into what I like to call, the tester slice, they give you when a man next to me leaned over and asked what kind of turkey I had. "Publix" I said rather dryly. "is it real?" he questioned. I was taken aback for a second. What did this guy mean? Of course it was real! I mean I guess it could've been tofurkey but the way he asked me didn't make me feel that he thought it was tofurkey. No, he said it like I was about to ingest play doh.  "um, yes,"  I suspiciously replied. "It looks shiny. Does it have preservatives in it" he asked? "I'm sure it does" I replied somewhat flatly. He seemed to have notice my shock and disappointment with what I thought was a healthy lunch option because he quickly added, "but it doesn't matter what's in it. As long as it tastes good, right?" "No, not really..." I softly replied and walked away. 

I have to find a new Publix...

 

Bump the bumper stickers

I'm not really a fan of bumper stickers. I never really have been. Except for maybe when I was little and I wanted my mom to slap on the "Proud Parent of a Terrific Kid" sticker onto the back of her GMC Jimmy. And I only thought that was cool because it acknowledge my hard work and terrificness (if I could just use that as a word for a moment). But for the most part I can't get on board with them. I find most of them to be obnoxious. I will admit there are some that do have unique messages. And some that don’t slap you in your face with their ignorance. But I’m not talking about those. I’m talking about the ones that insult you with their lack of intelligence and dull wit. I’m talking about these:

"My kid can beat up your terrific kid" or is it "my kid can beat up your honor student"? Ugh. I get all kinds of bent out of shape when I read these. It's not so much what is being said but what isn't being said that irks me. "My kid didn't make the terrific kid so instead of encouraging him to work harder I'm going to send a message to his peers and his peers parents that not only is he not a "terrific kid" but that he wants to beat up your kid because of it" Maybe we shouldn't label kids as "terrific" in the first place but if that's your angle than plastering this sticker on your car doesn't make your case any stronger. 

And what about the ones with the little guy peeing on something they dislike like the number 88 for Dale Earnhardt Jr. or Obama or McCain or anything else you don't happen to like or agree with. It's just immature. And it makes me wonder if they'd pee on me if I happend to disagree.

But nothing can beat the spectacle I saw on my way home from a recent Deltona trip. As I approached a truck I noticed there was something covering the back far right window of the truck. The closer I got the bigger this image became until it was finally revealed to me to be a giant “bumper sticker” with a giant image of the side profile of a woman holding a gun. And it wasn't a little gun. It looked like a rifle (I really have no idea what kind of gun she was holding but it was big) and she was pointing it at oncoming traffic. I was afraid to pass cause I thought she might shoot me. I started cracking up. Is this a sticker letting me know you're a hunter or a part of the NRA or some sort of new alarm system to scare off thieves and/or vehicles trying to pass you? I guess it didn't really matter what it meant (if it even meant anything) cause I still found it to be OBNOXIOUS! But at least this one made me laugh.

Ok, I'm getting off my pedestal now...