NaBloPoMo

Upon my wise friend Elle's advise, I'm jumping on the bandwagon and posting one blog per day in November. And in case you were wondering, yes, I'm looking forward to speaking with the NRA about sending in my monthly support check. [sarcasm]

The JV Allstars

Here is our indoor soccer team (aka the old-fat-out-of-shape-crew) It was an opening night of my childhood fantasy of learning to play soccer like Mia Hamm finally coming to fruition. Let's just say thanks to the Australian chick (aka Meredith) who scored our one goal so it wasn't a complete shutout, making the score 9-2 (girl's goals count as two points - the one time our girl "handicap" works for us).

Yes, Lyndsie did color in the white on her t-shirt with pink highlighter, apparently not understanding the purpose of a UNIform.
Yes, we could have all played a little better had oxygen tanks been available on the sidelines.

The Voices in My Head

Yesterday after work I was the last one there. So I set the alarm, walked outside into the pitch black parking lot, and realized my car wasn't there. After a brief second of my brain exploding, it hit me that I had parked my car on the other side of the building. As the alarm's beeping continued, my 45 second window to close the door was dwindling. I had the choice to do one of two things:

1. I could run all the way through the office AND the warehouse, hard drive and cords balanced precariously in one hand, purse and backpack in the other, hoping to make it to the back of the building before the alarm started going off.

2. I could wait, ear pressed against the closed front door, until the beeping subsided, go back into the building and deactivate the alarm, and exit through the back.

The little voice of reason in my head said "It would be a very bad idea to attempt to run - you'll fall on your face, knock yourself out, break your hard drive, and be found by the police department."

This is the same voice that told me my shallow cup holders would not actually hold my two Jamba Juices - they would end up on the floor on the first turn. It told me not to hold that grande hot latte in my lap and not in the provided cup holder - I'd squeeze it open and it would spill all over my lap. It also told me I shouldn't go to prom with someone I hardly knew or ever talked to, regardless of the fact that everyone told me you couldn't NOT go to prom because I'd be giving up part of my childhood that I'd never be able to get back. And moreso, this voice told me I probably shouldn't eat the questionable yogurt - I'd be puking all over the place.

Those times I made a concious decision to not listen to the voice and I spilled Jamba Juice all over the passenger seat of my car, I squeezed Starbucks all over my lap, I didn't hardly talk to my prom date all night, and I spent Thanksgiving Day puking my guts out while everyone else ate to their heart's content downstairs.

Maybe all those moments ran through my head this time and I decided to wait. So in the darkness, I sat there with my ear pressed up to the glass door until the beeping subsided, and walked across the entire office to my car slowly. Just because I could.

The Whole Scene

Today I'm feeling down. I don't even know why. It's one of those stupid women things that when the men say, "What's wrong with you?" we say, "I have no idea, I'm just crying." And then they say, "Well, would you please figure out what it is so we can fix you?" And then we start crying uncontrollably, blaming it all on PMS.

I think this is ridiculous.

The whole scene: the uncontrollable weeping and gnashing of teeth. The inability to pinpoint emotions. The confused men. The constant inappropriate commercials that run rampant on American television. I'm sorry, but a tampon would not stop your boat from sinking to the bottom of the lake, no matter what size Tampax you dug out of your purse. And I don't want to hear about anyone else's 'not so fresh days'.

So today, when a co-worker informed me that the guy at Fast Signs told him they love producing signs for us because they are so funny and creative, he did the right thing. First, he affirmed the fact that as a faux designer, I'm not all that bad if even the sign people look forward seeing what we've come up with. Second, he reminded me that ruminating on all the aforementioned thoughts doesn't really get us anywhere, now does it?

Regardless of my Moody McMooderson days, I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and gosh darn it, people like me.

What would you be if you stopped trying so hard?

I read this today in Keri Smith's blog. If I stopped to breathe:

impeRfect
witty
coffee shop sitter
a bad dancer who still has fun dancing in public
converse wearing emo
argile wearing preppy
new balance wearing athlete
lover of justice
discoverer
parallel parker
lifting twirling hugs
movie quoter
treasure seeker
eater of brown sugar clumps
smiling in the pulse of the city
He-Man and Barbie comingling in the same imagination
off key singer
an on and off raging mess of emotions and fun
feeler
learning artist
Rachel Ray wannabe
people watcher
writer
hater of all things claustrophobic
breathing in nature
naps
sneezing in the sun
beach trips with simon and garfunkel and james taylor
left-handed and not retarded
Kathryn, Katie, Kate
music inspired
skipping down the sidewalk without stepping on the cracks
using the same purse until it breaks but never getting rid of any
smelling lotions and soap in expensive gift shops
digging my feet in the sand, dirt and grass
and then washing them when I get home
organize, re-organize, repeat
laying upside-down on the couch and seeing the world new

Office Quote of the Day: Blair

This one is brought to you by the letter 'R' and Jergins Hand Soap:

Blair: "I just typed two words . . . without looking at my hands!"
Erin: "What two words were they?"
Blair: "Jacked up."

Don't Mess WithTexas

[picture of part of my breakfast last day in Austin]

Homeward Bound

This week I went into an antique shop at 1:00 p.m. where I heard a man say, "Be prepared ladies, we'll be getting out of here at 10:00 p.m." I sifted through old photographs for 50 cents, $1, and $5 each, wondering if someday in 2080, somebody would be sifting through pictures of me in an antique store, thinking about that crazy era at the turn of the century.

I saw a woman on the way to the capitol building downtown who had a long white goatee and I was so intrigued I wanted to ask to take her picture, but instead I acquiesced to photographing yet another man playing his guitar for change.

I learned that instead of praying for clarity, that God would make everything in my life completely clear and obvious, that I should be praying for trust. That it isn't about a clear path; it's about giving up the notion that I'm actually in control here.

That in addition to all the afformentioned establishments, Houlihans, The Roaring Fork, The Ginger Man, Las Manitas, and Flipnotics have proven to me that Austin, despite it's unbearable heat, would be a very decent place to live for a while.

Yesterday I sat at the window in my room at the Raddisson, atop hundreds of people in boats, and on foot over the Congress Street bridge, awaiting the mass exodus of the famous Austin bats. We all waited with giddy anticipation (okay, I was giddy for about 1 second just because Chad told me to see the bats), and after 45 minutes of dusk turning itself to darkness, and a realization the bats were not having it tonight, I gave up. I'm sure they were all hanging under the bridge giggling to themselves, saying, "Suckers . . . let's wait 'til all the stupid humans leave." And so we did.

And after four days standing at a booth, I realized we've been sitting next to the oximoron of the century:

S & M Christian Goods

Oh, yes my friends, and they even have these for sale for the low, sell your children on the street price of $30:



















I'm ready to get home . . .

P.S. We just ran out of free t-shirts at the booth, so I just gave a lady the one off my back. Yes, Ma'am, poverty does suck.

Austin

Cacophony: bearded shirtless pony-tailed man's bike spokes whizzing down Congress Ave., conversations about guerrilla fashion and underground DJing and Photoshop, traffic weighing itself down as the work day begins to end, girlfriends conversing for all the hours I've been at Jo's, Ben Harper on iTunes from Doug's Groovy Music mix and my new Ray LaMontagne CD from Half Price Books (oh, how I miss this store)

Five Scents: coffee, sweaty people, cigarette smoke, exhaust, my now heated sandwich in the 93 degree heat

Feeling: my partially wool pants stick to my sweaty legs, a taunting breeze only blowing every few minutes, a bench hardening to my back as I type here for hours, a peace about being alone in the midst of this gathering of strangers, families, friends, co-workers, and lovers, dry skin and a need for a massage, alive in this culture

In Plain Sight: 42 and counting Longhorn emblems on backs of autos, cows dancing on top of Amy's ice cream, an imposing sign that says GUNS on top the St. Vincent de Paul thrift store, red chairs and silver chairs sitting themselves in unordered fashion around the patio of Jo's, a wall of band posters tattered and worn and waiting for October's shows to bring in a refashioned breed of art, a future five year old cowboy with blonde ringlets, t-shirt, shorts, and mini worn cowboy boots