On Deadlines

In college I had a professor who said he assigned term papers to give his students a chance to do their laundry.

That's the thing about deadlines, when you have one you'll do whatever you can to avoid it.

Sadly, my laundry is done. My kitchen is clean and my baseboards shining. There's nothing to do but write the flippin' things.

That's why I'm blogging.

500 words. It's not so many, not so long. This isn't a thesis or even a term paper. I'm 10% done-- I have 50 words written and yet I'm paralyzed.

I haven't had a writing deadline since the spring of 2002. I'm out of practice. I can't churn things out any more. Still, a journey of 1000 miles start with one step, an essay of 500 words with a sentence.

I have to keep my eye on the prize-- the way it will feel when it's all done!

Update: It's 7pm, well, 5 past. I have 138 words. 362 left to go. Say a prayer, gang. Say a prayer.

Update, 2: 4 minutes before 8 and I have 250 words. I'll get to 400 easy, 500 may be a stretch. If I can get it out by 10, I'll be happy. Dear Lord, how do people do this for a living? I'd go barmy.

Update, 2.5: 8:28, 300 words. Yee haw!

Tune in Tokyo

Hi hi hi!
How are you?
Sorry for the radio silence.

Things have been....I don't know, nutty? I hate to use work as an excuse because, really, do you want to know how much time I spend goofing off? So, yes, while I am working harder and longer and more diligently in my new position, I still have plenty of time to write goofy emails.

I'm kinda pre-occupied. Still trying to find my place during a time of upheaval. Whereas I spent last summer jetting off each weekend to the beach and loving every minute of it, this summer I'm just trying to get through it. Not in a bad way, really, but more in a, "if I put my head down can I just wake up at Thanksgiving?" kind of way. There's still so much left to learn, so much about which I am unsure, I just want this part of the job over and done.

Make sense?

Soon enough,though, it will be fall and I'll have 3 months under my belt. Don't know why that sticks in my head, it's just, well, 90 days is long enough to not be the newbie.

It's more than the job, though. I feel like I spent the past year or so preparing for a big change. I don't know what it is, but I feel something coming. Not in a scary way, in a good way. Like I'm being carried along by the tide and I'm not exactly sure where I'm going but I know it's somewhere good. At the same time, however, I'm in a stream of moving water so it's, you know, a good idea to be braced for things like rocks and driftwood and the occasional beer bottle.

Hot Fun in the Summertime

It's too darn hot.
And last night I was too darn stupid.

It's easy to forget, when you live in a walking city, that much of your daily activity is actually exercise. It doesn't feel like exercise, it feels like going to work or the grocery store. It is indeed exercise, especially when the temperature is 95 degrees.

Which brings me to last night.

I left the office at the normal time and had a leisurely walk home-- popped into a few shops along the way and chatted with friends. When I reached the park, I called my mom and chatted with her for a while. As we talked, I walked the perimeter of the park. 3 times. Or, roughly, 1.5 miles.

So, to recap, between walking home and walking around the park, I logged roughly 3 miles in 95 degree heat. Except! It didn't feel like exercise! And since it didn't feel like exercise and I wasn't thirsty, I didn't drink any water when I got home.

Then, because I am a gluten for punishment, I decided to go for a run. A nice 2.5 mile stretch of the legs along the Hudson River. Sounds great, right? Yeah, it was great until about 1.5 miles into it when I realized, quite dramatically, that I had not drunk enough water.

My right leg cramped up and down I went. Slapt on concrete sidewalk of the West Side Highway, right in front of the delightfully good-looking gentleman running behind me.

Because of course, if you're going to fall down in fit of dehydration and muscle cramps, you want to make sure you do it in front of the most handsome man around. It's just common sense. Or a complete lack there of.

Oy vey.

One of Eight Million

Living in New York is like being in an abusive realtionship. One moment you're bruised and battered and the next, well, you're sitting in New York's lap and he's stroking your hair, whispering sweet nothings in your ear.

A weekend like the one just passed leaves me wondering how I could ever leave this city. The first snow, the over-whelming kindness of strangers, the convenience, the wonderful off-beat nature of life on this isle, it just leaves me feeling like the luckiest girl in the world.

What can I say? I love New York.

My Little Town

There's something very nice about coming home for the holidays.

You get to see everyone, catchup on all the gossip. Generally have a good time.

Even better is that you get to leave, and go back to your real life.

And for this I am grateful.

Hi-the-diddley-I-dill-dum

I have trouble with impulse control; a tendency to say whatever comes into my mind the moment it comes to mind. This causes all sorts of trouble in my life, much like the time I screamed, "Jane you ignorant slut!" from the upper deck of the tennis pro shop,embarrasing myself and my family in front of the community (or so my mother opined).

Worse yet, I have never learned how to leave gracefully. Quit while I'm ahead. Say good night Gracie. Generally speaking I am the last one to leave a party. I may even stay the night. Ahem.

Fortunately, while I may be a glutton, I'm also intelligent enough to surround myself with those more restrained. This came into play last night when, after a few pints and one delicious glass of Pimm's, I felt another round was in order. My good friend wisely reminded me that it was a school night and perhaps we should retire for the evening.

And thus, here I am this dark and rainy morning. Bright eyed and bushy tailed.

Found the Funny!

Actually included on the bottom of a report:

"The actual [redacted] number is unclear. Indeed, [redacted]'s number remains an enigma, wrapped in a riddle, shrouded in mystery."

This is what happens when you hire a history major to do an econ major's job.

C'est Vrai

Said yesterday morning by my friend, in complete sincerity:

Ryan, your job should be just telling people what to do.
You're so good at it

Duh. Finally. Somebody gets it!

To Whom It May Concern

A while back Megan wrote a letter to her younger self. It's Monday morning and I have no imagination, so I am copying her. Just like I did in Mr. Novotni's 7th grade math class.

Dear Ryan,
You hate change.
Love,
Ryan

ps- Change, though painful, has yet to kill you. And as they say, that which does not kill us...