don't knock it till you try it: biking when it's cold outside

To celebrate my recent birthday, Nick planned a weekend trip to Red Wing to bike the Cannon Valley Trail. We drove down to Cannon Falls on a Saturday afternoon in late October, loaded our stuff onto our bikes and started the 20-mile ride to Red Wing.

It was probably about 40 degrees when we started, and to be honest, I feared that the experience was going to suck. I am definitely a fair-weather biker--I'll happily bike 60 miles in one day, possibly uphill, but only if the weather is nice and warm. I have no interest in purchasing face masks and special tires so I can commute to my job all winter in the snow like many of the more resilient people I know.

But it wasn't that cold, so I decided to hope for the best.

Once we got going, it wasn't bad at all! In fact, I ended up getting overheated from the many hysterical layers of clothing I'd piled on.

We arrived in Red Wing and checked into the St. James Hotel. Later we had dinner at Norton's, a restaurant owned by the former bass player for Husker Du. The food was super good! Overall, biking in the cold was just fine.

don't knock it till you try it: working in the suburbs

Despite my greatest efforts to find a job in Minneapolis--the city in which I live--I seem destined to always end up working in the suburbs. I've had a few brief assignments in the city, and they were great. I could ride my bike to work in 10 minutes and walk a block to meet my friend Katie for lunch. Unfortunately, the honeymoon can't go on forever--my $11/hour temp job would end when the regular admin came back from maternity leave, for example, and then it was back to reading 5th graders' essays in Eden Prairie.

My first real job after college was as an "associate project manager" at an educational testing company in Maple Grove. The first time I went out there it felt like I'd driven far enough to end up in St. Cloud. "This is how far I have to drive--every day?" I asked myself with disbelief. But I slogged on.

After that, I worked for about two years in Plymouth, and then I left that job for another one in White Bear Lake. Then I worked for about a year in Minneapolis, until I got laid off. And now I'm back in Plymouth, within driving distance of a Jimmy John's, a Solo's Pizza and a Subway.

At first when I started working in the suburbs, I felt oppressed. It didn't make sense to me that I--someone who lives in a city--should be forced to rise at 6 a.m. to cobble together a "business casual" outfit and then drive half an hour to 45 minutes to some office park many miles away, just so I could pay rent on a barely heated apartment and replace the bottle of vodka.

But after several years in the suburbs, I began to accept my fate, and decided I would attempt to embrace my lot in life. During long lunches I would fill the void with shopping trips to TJ Maxx or Target Ridgedale. I would go for long walks around the residential neighborhoods with matching houses that all have garages poking out in front. I would meet my other friends with suburban jobs at Chili's.

And then when I started working in White Bear Lake, I realized that I had developed opinions about various suburbs. Whereas in the past I basically thought all suburbs sucked, I realized after experience that this was not the case. For example, when I started working in White Bear Lake, I realized that I missed the "scene" in Plymouth. The chain restaurants and retail stores in Plymouth were clearly so much better!

Of course, White Bear Lake had a few special things to offer (but they cannot be found at the Thai restaurant downtown). The bars, for instance. White Bear Lake has a great assortment of dive bars! The restaurant scene was pretty sad, but my co-editor and I solved that problem by frequently making the half-hour drive in downtown St. Paul for lunch.

Verdict:

Best overall suburb in which to work: Plymouth

Best suburban bars: White Bear Lake

Best prefabricated "downtown": Maple Grove

don't knock it till you try it: dinner at ecopolitan

I recently visited the Ecopolitan restaurant on Lyndale for the first time. I went there with my very healthy friend, "Ellen," who I hadn't seen in weeks.

The Ecopolitan is an all raw, all vegan establishment. And although I've been interesting in checking it out for awhile, I was a bit dismayed, because the night we had chosen was cold and damp. Raw, vegan food generally sounds more appealing to me in the excessive heat of summer. But I didn't dare suggest that we relocate our date to Jakeeno's Pizza.

So we arrived, and were seated at a cute little table in the corner of the dining room. I asked Ellen what she liked (she's a bit of regular), and she gave me a couple suggestions. I decided on the flaxseed tostadas, and Ellen got the taco salad.

The tostadas arrived, and I was pleasantly surprised. They were substantial! And served with generous portions of salsa and guacamole. I guess I assumed that anything vegan would by tiny.

And they were much tastier than I'd suspected. I had been skeptical about the raw factor--how could anything quasi-Mexican even be edible without cooked beans or proper tortillas? But I was wrong. I mean, okay--they did taste "healthy", but in a good way!

And since we didn't swill a bunch of organic wine (just some beet juice), the bill seemed really cheap, too.

Verdict: Hey, it was good! I would definitely go back. I don't think they're going to convert me to their all-raw lifestyle--it clashes with my Chinese medicine diet of "lightly cooked vegatables." I've already chosen my particular food cult. However, I will definitely go back to sit in the infrared sauna.

don't knock it till you try it: library literary readings

Tonight I went to see Said Sayrafiezadeh speak at the downtown Minneapolis library. Said (I'm going to act familiar and use his first name, because I'm lazy) is the author of When Skateboards Will Be Free, a memoir about growing up in the Socialist Workers Party. 

I haven't read the book, but I saw a little blurb about the reading in the City Pages and it sounded like it might be good. Also, since I am "a writer" I thought it might be high time for me to go out and start, you know, "supporting other writers" or whatever. 

But truth be told, I generally dread readings. It is the rare author who can actually read well in front of an audience. Because of this--or maybe just because I have no attention span--I generally find that I don't retain anything from the presentation. I have no idea what the book was about, no idea how he answered the question about the title or what it was like when his dad read the book.

Tonight, however, I was pleasantly surprised. Said was funny and engaging--not a boring, droning literary type, but not a pompous cocksucker either. Virtually unprecedented! He said some interesting stuff about why it was a big deal for him to be in Minneapolis (his parents met here, the Socialist Workers Party was really big here, etc.). He read an excerpt from the book, and he was so good at reading I was actually able to follow the story! Then he talked some more, and then he answered some questions. 

My favorite part was when some woman tried to tell him that the Socialist Workers Party actually got a lot of political work done (Vietnam protests, women's "liberation," etc.), even though she heard him say on NPR that the party wasn't politically effective at all. He was all, Whatever! Well, I guess he was more like, "I respect your opinion, but I completely disagree with you." I swear, it seemed more badass at the time--guess you had to be there!! 

So I was pleasantly surprised by the reading. Said was fun to listen to, and he made me want to read his book (usually a reading has the opposite effect on me). My only criticism is that the whole operation was so safe. I guess that's to be expected--it was at the library, after all. But the evening included not one but two introductions by white guys in suits. Tons of information about the library was shared, and donations were solicited. After the reading, audience members had the opportunity to get their books signed while drinking water and munching on cookies in the atrium. 

Furthermore, I was surprised by the advanced age of most people in the audience. Hey, I think it's great that tons of seniors came out to support a brand-new author. However, where were all the young people? The author is only about 40 years old--I thought he'd draw a somewhat younger crowd. There might have been one or two other thirty-something nerds in there, but virtually everyone appeared to be over 65. Is this what it will be like if I ever go on a book tour? 

don't knock it till you try it: running

Since I didn't have the nerve to audition for the spring musical, I joined the track team during my freshman year of high school. I figured there would be nothing to it--I'd been playing soccer for years, and that involved lots of running, right? I liked the sound of "distance running," so I went ahead and signed up for that team.

It didn't take long for me to realize that I actually hated running. Every day after school, the other runners (tall, thin, blond) and I (short, dark-haired, childbearing hips) would head off to some local nature preserve to sprint ceaselessly around the trails. Although in soccer I was considered a fast runner, on the track team, I sucked.

Like the rest of my personality during that era, my running was depressive--just getting started was an almost insurmountable task, and once I was moving, I just went through the motions (laboriously) until it was over and I could go home and sleep for 15 hours straight. Needless to say, after that experience I didn't even think about running for well over a decade.

However, the years went by, and eventually I found myself shacking up with a recreational runner. For many months I refused to accompany him. I had only negative memories of the tedium of slogging endlessly around a track, usually in a stadium in Blaine.

But eventually I gave in and started experimenting with running again. At first it was horrible--my lungs hurt, I was exhausted after five minutes, I was bored out of my mind--but I gave it lots and lots of time, and eventually it became tolerable.

Now I go running every so often--sometimes even two or three times a week!--and I think I can say I almost like it. But I have not yet turned into one of those people who "love" or "crave" running, nor do I prance around Lake Calhoun in full eye makeup and a jog bra. But who knows what tomorrow might bring.

don't knock it till you try it: going to a restaurant alone

Last week I traveled to Regina, Saskatchewan for a work-related trip. One of things I hate most about business trips is all the enforced merriment with coworkers, including the dreaded group dinners. These aren't horrible by definition, but I just hate the way it always goes--the meeting wraps up around 5:15, and whoever is facilitating says, "Okay, then, let's all walk back to the hotel, drop off our laptops and meet in the lobby at 5:45. We've got a reservation for six-o-clock sharp!" 

But we had a giant lunch at 1:00--doesn't anyone else want to think about something other than food for an hour or so? Doesn't anyone want to go for a walk, or make a phone call, or just not see the other meeting participants for at least half an hour? I guess my introverted, reclusive nature is to blame here, and not my energetic, positive coworkers, but I will still complain bitterly. 

So on this last trip, although there were at least two group dinners, I managed to legitimately excuse myself from both. One evening I went out with a coworker unrelated to the business trip, and we had lots of food and wine and gossiped about work-related things and it wasn't nerve-wracking at all. The other nights, I somehow managed to go out by myself. 

When I tell people about doing things alone, they often look at me with pity, as if I can't find anyone to accompany me. Maybe this is actually the case, but I don't really care--I like going out by myself. Granted, sometimes it sucks--there's nothing like going alone to an all-ages rock show at the age of 16 when the band you came to see doesn't play for four hours and all you have to occupy the time is drink soda and maybe play some Ms. Pacman.    

But in general, I like to go out alone. One of the nights I waited until a little after 8:00 (two hours after my coworkers had dinner!) to go out and look for a restaurant. I found a bar/restaurant that specialized in beer. I'm not that crazy about beer, but it seemed like a good place to go alone--there probably wouldn't be a bunch of starry-eyed couples looking over at me and wondering if I'd been stood up by my Internet date or something.

I ordered some food, and some beer, and my waiter was very nice and charming but not in a smarmy way. There were other single people there, but they were all dudes. I think a single woman in a restaurant or bar is often an anomaly. This can be a bad thing--everyone assumes you're a harlot and you get lots of unwanted attention--or it can be a good thing, and your waiter comps you a beer and invites you to join him and the rest of the waitstaff later that night at the Irish bar down the block.  

Don't knock it till you try it: one-piece swimsuits

In The Meaning of Sunglasses, a book about style that I really enjoyed, Hadley Freeman weighs in on a variety of fashion topics (ankle boots, the etiquette of beauty treatments, hem lengths) in a smart and entertaining way. However, when I went swimsuit shopping the other day I was haunted by one of her opinions. As Freeman wrote in the book, "A woman in a one-piece bathing suit is either a professional swimmer, someone with issues about the shape of her tummy, or someone traumatized by a missing bikini top accident."  

Now, I hate my body as much as the next girl, but in my old age I've come to realize that the odds of being chased down a beach by a bunch of 12-year-old boys making fun of my awkward body are slim. (They were not so slim when I was nine years old at the Richfield pool, but that's a story for another post.) So, to prove that I'm okay with my abdomen, I boldly hauled a bunch of two-pieces into the dressing room, including some so-called "tankinis," which Freeman thinks are the perfect compromise in that they cover more skin while not binding your chest. 

I tried on all the stuff and was sorely disappointed. Everything fit absurdly and looked ridiculous. There's not much else to say without straying into Cathy territory. Anyway, despite agreeing with Freeman on many of the points she made in her book, I wasn't sold at all on the "tankinis" (a word I can't stop putting in quotes because I find it really embarrassing.) There was something bulky and awkward about them, at least the ones I brought into the dressing room. 

The time had come, I decided, to try the one-piece. Could the style really be that dowdy? I grabbed two that didn't look completely elderly and went back to the dressing rooms. They were both great! One was fushia in a sort of "50's bombshell" style, and the other one was kind of like a very short halter dress. I didn't feel like a professional swimmer at all. 

Conclusion: Screw bikinis and tankinis--one-piece bathing suits are the best-kept secret in the world of swimwear. 

don't knock it till you try it: Chinese medicine diet

Ever since my doctor diagnosed me with arthritis and suggested that I deal with the pain indefinitely using "aspirin and rest," I've been researching alternative treatments. I decided to start out with acupuncture. 

I've been impressed with the results so far, and plan to write a formal "don't knock it" about acupuncture in the near future. But first I want to write about the dietary suggestions that my acupuncturist gave me. 

After a few sessions, my aching, supposedly arthritic neck was feeling much better. However, it seemed that as my spine improved, other problems were emerging. For one thing, I was suddenly acutely aware of the way I clench my jaw almost 100% of the time, and the constant headache this habit promotes. 

Also, my ability to eat tons of really spicy or unhealthy food was diminishing. One day when Megan asked about how things were going, I told her about how after eating a bowl of super hot lentil soup I started to feel weak and dizzy about half an hour later, and had to go lay down in the "quiet room" at my corporate job until I felt halfway normal. "But I always eat tons of hot food!" I protested, embarrassed about my weakness. 

Megan didn't seem surprised at all by this turn of events. She explained that the whole acupuncture process is like peeling an onion--layer by layer, you get past one issue, but then discover something new. As my body was coming into balance, it was suddenly also unable to tolerate some of things it was previously accustomed to--in this case, super hot foods. 

"Have we talked about diet stuff?" she asked me. We hadn't, and she printed me a list of dietary recommendations that were meant to help treat my general condition, which translates to "damp heat." (I won't go into the diagnosis right now. You can google it, but don't expect to get a precise definition.)  Megan made it clear that these were only suggestions, and that she wasn't suggesting that I implement them all right away "or else." Basically, I think she was just suggesting that I be more mindful about what I was eating, while keeping the suggestions in mind. 

Although I am opposed to diets, I'm in favor of eating stuff that might make me feel better, so I decided I would try to implement at least some of the suggestions. Here are the things that were on the "avoid" list:

• Dairy products
• Fruit and fruit juices
• Ice water
• Cold or raw foods
• Coffee
• Deep fried, greasy foods
• Sugars and sweets 
• Rich foods 

I could tell this was going to be a challenge. I drink coffee with cream and honey every morning, and eat lots of raw vegetables--it's "healthy," right? And I would have to stop getting smoothies with my friends from dance class. I suspected this eating plan was going to destroy my friendships, since they all seem to revolve around consuming things--things that I can no longer consume, so long as I want to avoid excruciating pain. 

But I tried to stay positive, and turned to the "good" list. Good stuff included soup (broth, not cream), lightly cooked vegetables (especially sweet potatoes, squash, carrots, asparagus, celery and bean spouts), aduki beans, white fish, green tea and rice. This was okay, but not great. 

Nevertheless, I decided to make some changes. I dutifully made green tea every morning instead of the sweet, milky coffee beverage I was used to. I made some bland soup out of beans, carrots and sweet potatoes and took it to work three days in row for lunch. I ate brown rice and vegetables for dinner. It was totally boring, but I have to admit, physically, I felt pretty good. 

I fell of the wagon a few times, and tried to notice if I felt any different. One Saturday morning I was running late to dance class and had some coffee instead of brewing up my green tea. I felt nauseated right after I finished it, although I was loathe to admit it. I like to drink coffee; green tea is so wan. 

Still, I couldn't deny that the changes were making me feel better. But as I became more accustomed to my bland new diet, I noticed something else--my usually massive appetite was diminishing. It was a revelation--of course, I realized, who wants to gorge on totally boring food?

Soon I found myself eating only half of my lunch of brown rice, carrots, black beans and spinach. It just wasn't interesting to eat a ton of that stuff. I was starting to feel like a chick with an eating disorder. "Oh, I couldn't possibly eat another bite!" Dainty eaters have always disgusted me--I didn't want to become one of them.  

Earlier tonight I went to a Vietnamese restaurant with my parents. I ordered a Vietnamese salad with shrimp, and it was just terrible. A bunch of the stuff that's usually in those salads was missing (cucumbers, herbs, bean sprouts), so it basically amounted to a limp pile of noodles on top of some shredded lettuce, all topped with shrimp that was doused in a sweet, gloopy sauce. I did my best to eat a polite amount (I didn't want my parents to think I some Asian restaurant snob, which is what was actually going on), but I just couldn't bring myself to make a significant dent in the meal. 

My dad asked me twice if liked my salad. I lied and said yes. I could tell he had noticed that I had barely eaten anything. I probably should have just told the truth--that the food grossed me out because it tasted like it had been marinated in maple syrup. But I didn't, so my mom will probably decide that I have an eating disorder again, and start inviting me out for ice cream sundaes all the time. 

don't knock it till you try it: doing laundry for a man

Last night while folding laundry, I had a mundane yet alarming revelation. It was as if I could suddenly see myself from the perspective of the outside world. "Oh my god," I thought. "I am doing Nick's laundry!" 

This struck me as funny and absurd for a few reasons. For one thing, I recently wrote a bile-filled article called "Women's Work: On the Female Habit of Scrubbing a Noncommittal Dude's Toilet in a Desperate Attempt to Secure a Commitment." In this article, I came down harshly on women who bustle around doing housework for their lazy, one-foot-out-the-door boyfriends. 

I guess maybe my situation is different--after all, I managed to trap Nick into marriage, so it's probably appropriate for me to do my fair share of the housework at this point. It's not as if Nick doesn't do anything, either. 

Maybe what it comes down to is that it just doesn't feel cool to do housework. Think about someone you find insanely attractive. Now think about them hunched over their bed, matching their socks and folding them into little shapes and putting them away in a drawer. Pretty much kills the romance before it started, right? 

Conclusion: I really don't mind doing the laundry. However, if I'd been born male, I probably would've stayed "single" my entire life and taken advantage of that handy female cleaning compulsion.  

don't knock it till you try it: arthritis

My spine has been aching for the past 20 years. Although painful and annoying, this has never seemed unusual for me. Since it started when I was kid, I guess I just always assumed that it was something inevitable that I had to live with, like chronic feelings of self-loathing. 

So I was unfazed when, a couple weeks ago during dance class, I "threw out" my back while fake swing dancing with my friend Amy. It was the usual--shooting pain from the middle of my spine up into my neck, an inability to turn my head to the right without getting dizzy and nauseated, etc. 

Normally I would immediately make an appointment with my chiropractor, but this time I decided to wait to see what would happen. A couple days passed, and the pain stuck around, but got less severe. I could sort of turn my head to the right, at least enough to drive my car. But it was still hurting. 

This time around I made the bold decision to see my primary care doctor. I normally wouldn't even consider consulting a "normal" doctor about my chronic back pain, but I figured, why not? My chiropractor usually makes me feel better, but my head usually starts to hurt again within a day or two. Plus, I figured a western doctor might ignore the cause and simply treat the symptoms with a prescription for some muscle relaxants. Sometimes the easy way out is really tempting. 

My doctor entered the office and started quizzing me about my neck pain. I told her about the chronic headaches, the grinding of the teeth, the limited range of motion, et al. "How long has this been going on?" she asked me. I thought for a moment. "I guess about 20 years," I answered. 

She looked at me as if I was a little slow. "20 years?" she said, possibly trying to downplay her disbelief. "Have you ever had this checked out? Have you ever had x-rays of your spine?" I admitted the idea had never occurred to me.  

She sent me off to be x-rayed. When she came back to the room, she announced, "Well, someone definitely dropped you on your head when you were a baby. You have an incredible amount of arthritis in your neck for someone your age." 

I was dismayed. Arthritis? I figured I might get arthritis in 30 or 40 years, not now. Or, you know, not since childhood. She explained that it appeared to be the result of an injury, and asked me if I'd ever "fallen on [my] head during a cheerleading stunt." I said no, and began to brood about the question. "Do I look like a former cheerleader? I am not!" I thought huffily, even though I should probably be glad that she thought I have former-cheerleader potential, instead of imagining the real awkward, unpopular adolescent me. 

So I asked her what I can do about my newly discovered arthritis of the neck. She told me that physical therapy "might help," but that her immediate suggestion was to take lots of ibuprofen and "rest." And that was it. 

Somewhat depressed, and also skeptical, I decided to follow her advice for a day. I took handfuls of ibuprofen and it really didn't seem to make a dent in my constant headache. I refrained from running, but I felt stiffer and more uncomfortable than I do when I actually get some exercise.

I was not impressed with the treatment plan, and therefore abandoned it after a day in favor of my normal living routine. But the arthritis is hear to stay, and so, it seems, is the pain. Therefore, in future columns I will write about the other stuff I plan to try, including acupuncture and reading some book about back pain that supposed can "cure" whoever reads it.   

don't knock it till you try it: thinking positive, part 2

I think I'm going to have to re-do my "let's think positive" experiment. The very day after I declared the project, I found myself in a traffic jam directly in front of my house. I live on 36th Street in Minneapolis, which must be the busiest "on ramp to 35W street" in the entire city. Just getting out of my parking space and into the road is an arduous task every single day. 

In the last week or so, the traffic on my street has mysteriously gotten even worse. Now, after I manage to merge into traffic, it generally takes about 15 minutes to drive to the highway--even though the highway is half a block away. 

So the other day I was waiting at the light that one must get through to get onto the highway, and I was stuck. None of the other cars were moving, so it was impossible to cross. I waited through at least three cycles of lights. "This is out of your control," I thought to myself in a soothing tone. "Give thanks for your vigorous health. Think positive!" 

Then the girl in the car behind me (the one who almost wouldn't let me merge in front of her, but I forced it and I'm sure she was scared I'd scrape up her car, and obviously that's the only reason she relented) suddenly swerved to the right, speeding around me and racing across the intersection to take the (nonexistent) space in the opposite lane that was rightfully mine. I cursed her and dramatically gave her the finger. 

Of course there was nowhere for her to go, and her car jutted into oncoming traffic, inspiring much honking of horns. Eventually I managed to cross the street and ended up in the lane to her left. I glared at her openly, but in true Minnesota fashion she pretended not to notice. I plotted about how I could cut her off in the most inconvenient way, but eventually ran out of energy, realizing how idiotically juvenile I was being.

Then it occurred to me that I had completely abandoned my positivity project. I wish I could say this was my only slip-up, but sadly, that is not the case. It's not that I was really being noticeably negative about things, it's just that I wasn't really consciously remembering to "think positive." So even though I can't outline a bunch of examples, I'm pretty sure I easily fell into my usual pattern of obsessive negative thoughts. 

I think perhaps giving myself the directive to "think positive" was not the most useful way to address this little project. That is, it's kind of like telling yourself not to be jealous when your boyfriend runs off with your former best friend. You can tell yourself what you "should" do, but it's generally not going to have any actual effect on your real thoughts and actions. 

So I'm thinking it might be better for me to focus on acting positively. I have a couple examples of positive actions from the past week, so perhaps all is not lost. But I'll give it another week or so, and then, as a treat, I think I'll allow myself to wallow for awhile in my true, negative nature.  

don't knock it till you try it: thinking positive

I am not naturally inclined to "think positive." Even when I was a little kid, I remember approaching the world with a sense of impending doom. If something good happened--a starring role in the first grade Christmas pageant, for example--it was a foregone conclusion that something much more terrible would follow--a broken leg while processing up the theater aisle, the death of a beloved pet on opening night, etc. And if something horrible didn't happen, it was clear to me that "god" was up there in the sky, smirking and waiting for an even more impressive accomplishment to ruin with tragedy and pain. 

This negative, depressive mindset made my childhood somewhat difficult. Kids, I suppose, are meant to be curious, hopeful little cherubs. I was quiet, withdrawn, and gloomy. It wasn't a popular personality, but I remained true to myself, and eventually it all paid off when I went to arts high school, where the majority of other students had a worldview that at least was sympathetic to mine. Negativity was conducive to art stuff, apparently.  

But then I grew up, and started doing things like getting corporate suburban jobs to pay the rent on my studio apartment. At this point, I also starting making friends with some people who weren't sworn nihilists. They sensed my true personality, and started slipping me books about Buddhism. 

In the spirit of "open mindedness" I read (or at least skimmed) these books. The basic idea seemed to be this--stop obsessing about everything and being so ridiculously self-centered. Or in stupid-person terms--think positive! 

I would occasionally try to implement some of this cognitive therapy into my daily life. For example, when some catty type-A anorexic would insult my clothes or my shaky command of an eyeliner, I would try to breathe in the bad vibes and exhale positivity, like a plant converting carbon dioxide to oxygen. 

Although this seemed like the "right thing to do," I felt like an imposter. "Letting go" does not come easily to me. I'd prefer to narrow my eyes, make a snide comment and begin plotting my rival's complicated demise. 

But this is not the fashionable way to approach life these days. It isn't cool to hold a grudge, obsess about the way your first boyfriend totally precipitated your descent into clinical depression, or pass judgement on the convention of moms who congregate in the break room to talk about hockey tournaments. 

So in an attempt to be "normal" and also to possibly improve my mental health, I've decided to make a real effort to have positive thoughts for the next week. I will check in periodically to document how it's going. 

don't knock it till you try it: attempting to make a difference

This past Tuesday I courageously decided to skip my dance class so that I could attend a town hall meeting about Pawlenty's horrible state budget suggestions. Among his many ill-advised cuts was his proposal to destroy the Perpich Center for Arts Education, also know as the Arts High School, in Minnesota. 

The whole idea of this makes me sick and angry. I graduated from the Arts School in 1997, and I have only positive things to say about my experience there. How many people go around saying that kind of thing about their high school? Basically, Pawlenty wants to end the "outreach" part of the school (the agency that provides teacher training, arts programs in rural areas, etc.) and turn the school into a charter school. I could go on and on about why turning that school into a charter school is a horrible idea and why it would be as good as shutting the school down for good, but I will leave those thoughts for the legislative people I've been writing to. 

Anyway, so when I heard about this proposal, I felt like it was my "civic duty" to try to do something about it. So when I heard about the town hall meetings being held to address the proposed budget, I thought it would be a good idea for me to go and say some articulate, persuasive things about why the arts school has to stay the way it is. So I filled out the online form saying I wanted to "testify," and showed up at the meeting, full of purpose. 

The meeting was held at the Minneapolis Park Board building in north Minneapolis (within a few blocks of Stand Up Frank's). There were tons of people there. Probably hundreds--I think I have a learning disability when it comes to estimating anything, but the room was full. I lurked around, waiting for the meeting to start. 

Finally, some state representative kicked things off. He told us everyone would get one and half minutes to speak--no longer! Then some other representative type showed PowerPoint slides and read exactly what was on the slides. We all had copies of the slides, as well. I thought it was "interesting" that he glossed over the slide that showed the negative funding going to the arts school. 

The first representative guy got back on the microphone to kick off the "testament" part of the meeting. He reminded us of the time limit, and asked that we not clap or heckle. The first speaker was R.T. Rybak. 

Ryabak eventually got cut off, but they totally let him speak for over 1.5 minutes. But I guess maybe you've "earned" that, if you're the mayor. Then the unwashed masses began to speak, and the boredom really began to set in. But I stayed where I was, even though I really wanted to dash off to the bathroom. What if they called my name when I was gone, and I lost my turn? I couldn't risk that! 

I guess what I learned while listening to everyone speak is this--most people are pretty bad at public speaking. Sometimes the message is unclear. Sometimes embarrassing gimmicks are used to make a point ("Footprints" style stories, for example). But a lot of the time, you just can't focus on what someone is saying because they mumble or whisper or hold the microphone at their waist. 

I'm sure a lot of the speakers had good points, and I heard a handful of them. One articulate young woman who spoke about cutting funds for poor mentally ill people almost made me teary-eyed. Of course, I was super hungry when she got up to speak, so maybe it was just low blood sugar. Regardless, I wanted to make sure her funding wasn't cut. 

Hours passed, and my name was never called. During this time, two older gentleman got up to speak on behalf of PCAE. Both were current or former parents of arts school students. I was glad that someone was getting to talk about the school, but I wanted to hear from some students, too. 

Around 8:30, the moderator announced that the meeting was officially scheduled to end at 8:00, and warned us that the legislators might start leaving, but that at least a couple of them would stick around to hear everyone out. "Everyone" amounted to over 60 more people. 

I waited around for another 15 minutes or so, and finally just gave up. By the time my name was called, no one would be there and it would be an exercise in vanity, I figured. 

So that didn't really work out as planned. I was reduced to sending emails--when what I really wanted was to impress the legislative people with my exciting, easy-to-understand testimonial. I'm disappointed that I didn't get to make dramatic public statements like everyone else. Knock it: Poorly planned town hall meetings.  

don't knock it till you try it: loss of composure

My beloved and I celebrated Valentine's Day by having a brand-new oven delivered to our house. I was so excited--I hadn't had a functioning oven in over four years! For the week leading up to the delivery, I had domestic fantasies involving roasted vegetables and frozen pizzas. I knew the purchase was going to completely revolutionize my life. 

Then the day of the delivery came, and we uh, like totally missed the arrival of the delivery drivers. Although someone from Appliance Smart told Nick the oven would arrive between 8:30 and 9 am, evidently the delivery guys showed up at around 7:45 and didn't knock very hard on the door or something. Nick received a voicemail message a little after 8 am from a dispatcher, informing him that the delivery people had showed up, waited around for "45 minutes," and eventually left, taking the oven with them. 

Nick placed several phone calls, attempting to convince someone to have the delivery dudes come back to our house later in the day. Everyone he spoke with told him this was absolutely impossible--we had our chance to get the oven, and we messed up. We would simply have to reschedule, probably for Tuesday, but maybe not for over a week. They were not interested in hearing that the delivery guys showed up way before schedule, and made valiant attempts to pin the blame squarely on us.  

Although Nick is very persuasive, I could tell that the situation called for a woman's touch. He admitted that there was some weird "dude energy" with Patrick, the dispatcher. So I gathered a variety of phone numbers and started making some calls. 

Before I continue, I should mention that I kind of hate making phone calls. Just ringing up a store to ask about the availability of an item can send me into a spiral of anxiety, as if I am also required to ask the salesperson on a date. Also, I dislike confrontation and am rarely very forceful about making my case. I think I'm so guilty from years of Catholicism that, deep down, I don't really think I deserve anything good, and that if the oven didn't get delivered it's really pretty much exactly what I deserve. 

Anyway, so the phone calls were an effort. I started with Patrick, the dispatcher. I attempted to sound sweet and reasonable as I asked him if he could maybe just possibly give his delivery drivers just the quickest little call to see if just maybe they could swing by our house again that day. But Patrick wouldn't have anything to do with my charms, and he coldly informed me that he could give them a call, but he'd just be going through the motions because there was NO WAY anyone would be delivering anything to our house today. So I got a little irritable, and went all type A, asking to talk to his boss. He said he'd ask him to give me a call. I said I'd be expecting a call within half an hour, or I'd be calling Patrick again to see what was going on. 

Meanwhile, I called Appliance Smart and got on the phone with some sales guy. I told him I had an issue with my delivery, and he told me that was unfortunate, because the delivery department was closed that day. Although he thought the case was closed, I went on to explain what had happened, and asked if there was anything he or someone else at the store could do. He said no, and then launched into a lengthy description of why the delivery schedule is made the way it is, and why there are no exceptions even when the delivery people show up at the wrong time, and basically he was hinting very strongly that the whole thing was our fault. 

So I suggested that we might simply have to cancel the order and stop payment on the credit card, to which he responded, "Well, that's too bad." I asked him if he'd rather lose a sale than make even the tiniest effort to even act a little bit sympathetic. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but rules are rules and you can reschedule your delivery and this is just our policy and it isn't my fault that that's how it is..." And on and on. So I kind of lost it (in the way I lose it, which is mainly by getting flushed and adopting a bitchy tone), accusing him of terrible customer service, telling him that his reaction to the situation had caused me to become "hell-bent on ruining the reputation of Appliance Smart" which I was going to accomplish by sending out messages to my "500 friends on Facebook" (that last part was a lie--I only have about 52 friends on Facebook). 

In other words, I pulled a hysterical female act. I rarely use this approach (I generally think it's detestable), and when I have, it has usually failed to achieve the desired results. But not this time! After unleashing my rage on several by-the-book phone-answering men, the delivery guys showed up within half an hour. I felt a little bad about my behavior on the phone, but not as bad as I would've felt if I'd had to wait another week for the oven!!!!!!! Don't knock it till you try it: rampant selfishness.   

don't knock it till you try it: a job

In an earlier post I wrote about being unemployed. Those were the days--I got to sleep in, wander aimlessly around the house for hours and take mid-morning exercise classes at the gym with all the stay-at-home moms. 

However, all good things must come to an end, and even though we're in the middle of an "economic crisis" with record levels of unemployment, I somehow managed to acquire a job. No rest for the wicked, huh?  

So I'm back at what I do best, apparently--doing "writing-related" stuff at a suburban corporation. I'm not complaining--I'm getting some money to pay off my unemployment/wedding/honeymoon debt, I get to work with a friend from a former job, and my boss is really low-key and not "managerial" at all. 

I've only been at my office for a few weeks, and so far it's just fine. Generally I plunge into a pit of depressive anxiety whenever I start a new job. "Here we go again," I think, resigning myself to the existential nightmare of being an associate project manager for an educational assessment company in Maple Grove. 

However, this time around it's not so bad. For one thing, I actually felt like the people really wanted to hire me, for once. Usually when I get a new job I get this sense that they think they're doing me a big favor by offering me three days of vacation after a six-month waiting period. But in this case, it seemed like they were actually interested in getting me to work there! 

But despite all the positive things about my new gig, it is impossible not to take note of some of the "quirks" of having a corporate job. For example, I was blown away when I opened the freezer door in the break room. The selection of Lean Cuisines was incredible! "How do people find their lunches?"I wondered. Then I noticed that most people had written their names on the boxes. 

And speaking of food, there is always the intense pressure to eat many sugary treats while on the job. I think I consumed a cookie, a piece of cake, and one or two "bars" during just my first week, all in enforced socializing situations. I would mill around for a few minutes at the birthday party or "recognition" event or "status" meeting and would attempt to avoid the snack foods. However, someone was always on hand who would begin pushing the treats, saying, "Come on, just have one, it's okay, one won't kill you," and you know how it is, you just have to do it or risk being labeled as a dieter or anorexic. 

Another troubling part of having a "normal" job is the fact that you have to hang around the office all day. Seriously, how does anyone do this? At my last job, we were allowed to work from home if we wanted to, and even if I went into the office, it was a rare day that I was in for a full eight hours. I'd usually cut out early and finish up my work at the dining room table while listening to records. 

But that's not an option now. Everyone gets into work obscenely early (8 am) and works until 5. Based on the Lean Cuisines and all the people I've observed eating at their desks, it seems that no one even takes a proper lunch break, either. I guess I'm just lazy, but there is something so grueling and awful about sitting around an office for nine nonstop hours. To keep things interesting, I drink boatloads of water so I'll have an excuse to get up and wander to the bathroom about thirty times a day. Hey, follow your bliss, right?

modern dance

I recently ran into a former boyfriend at a bar. We chatted for awhile, and although he didn't ask me anything like, "What's new with you?" or "Any new hobbies?" I somehow felt the need to share. During a lull in the conversation, I suddenly blurted out, "I want to tell you something." He looked wary. "I've been taking modern dance classes!" Then he looked perturbed. "That doesn't sound like you at all," he said, turning away and heading back to the bar. 

I have mixed feelings about this response. On the one hand, it's a sad fact that I shunned exercise of any form for about ten years because I was loathe to be anything like the coarse, ignorant, homophobic jocks that populated my Catholic high school. But I guess I got it out of my system after a decade. Realizing that if I didn't change my ways I would end up obese and arthritic, I happily began biking and walking around a lot. 

And then one day, out of nowhere, I suddenly had this idea that I should be taking dance classes. It seemed strange, because it wasn't something I'd ever considered doing. Unlike my shattered "theater star" dreams, there was no squelched dance ambition lurking in my past. 

But I wasn't sure where to start. Since my mysterious dance "thing" was probably at least partially inspired by a Live Action Set performance, I went ahead and emailed Megan, who I decided was the most approachable Live Action company member. I asked her if there was any place in town where an "old" (e.g. not a 12-year-old ballerina) person could take beginning dance classes. She referred to me to Zenon.  

So I started taking beginning modern dance classes on Saturday mornings. I was impressed with the range of ages in class--I'd been terrified that I would be the oldest person, surrounded by a bunch of nubile 21-year-olds. I was pleased to discover that plenty of other people decide at say, age 55, that taking up dance is a good idea. 

The classes were fun, but humbling. Basic things like walking four steps forward, and then turning around, were exceptionally daunting. I fumbled around while everyone else seemed to execute every move perfectly. But despite feeling awkward and uncoordinated, I kept coming back, and week by week, I started to improve, ever so slowly.    

I also met a bunch of great people. Lots of the people who take dance classes are super smart and funny and interesting! Not like the people I met at my tennis lessons. (No offense to tennis people, but I just didn't have much luck making friends at the tennis bubble.) 

I don't have a neat little conclusion for this story. I'm still taking the Saturday classes; still trying to make my weight equal on both feet. I've promoted myself to some harder classes, just so I can feel awkward and out of place again. It's addictive!

square dancing in Gays Mills, Wisconsin

This past weekend Nick was scheduled to play a rock show in rural Wisconsin with his friend Phil. Phil, his girlfriend Laura, and their baby daughter Elva all live on a farm-like property in Soldiers Grove, Wisconsin. 

The show was scheduled to take place on Saturday evening in the natural foods co-op in a little nearby town called Gays Mills. When we arrived at the back door of the co-op, a sign on the door informed us that "NO ALCOHOL CONSUMPTION [was] ALLOWED." Nick and I lingered in the parking lot for a few more minutes, sharing a Hamm's. As Nick's band was "headlining," I could tell we were in for a long night. 

We entered the co-op community room. An employee tried to charge us $5, but we explained that we were "with the band." A variety of comfortable arm chairs and church pews lined the walls, and there was a table set up on the opposite wall selling baked goods (50 cents to $1) and natural canned sodas ($1). Nick and I splurged on a fruit-flavored soda, which we then shared. 

Meanwhile, a male and female musical duo entertained the crowd of about 10 to 15 people (there was a travel advisory in effect that night due to the ice storm that was taking place, so apparently there normally would have been way more people in attendance). They played guitar, fiddle (despite not being a musician, I am pretty sure that was a "fiddle" and not a "violin"), and also sang. 

This went on for awhile, and although they were fine musicians, I began to get fatigued. Normally in these situations one can just start downing drinks to keep things interesting, but every time we wanted some cheap beer we had to go outside and hang around in the sleet. 

The resulting restlessness is probably what led to our participation in the square dance. After a lengthy set, the fiddle duo took a momentary break to allow a tall guy with a bullhorn to announce an imminent square dance. Many eager hippie couples bounded into the middle of the room. 

Nick asked me if I wanted to square dance, but for some reason, I balked. I enjoy all kinds of dancing, and usually don't care too much about not really knowing the steps or looking stupid, but these people looked like they knew what they were doing. They really seemed to be into square dancing. I was vaguely worried that they'd be mad if I went in there and screwed up the promenading. 

But it turned out that the dance was one couple short, so we felt obligated to join the group. We quickly launched into the dance. I've square danced once--in second grade, at the "father-daughter square dance" that was sponsored by my Catholic school brownie troupe. The "moves" (calls?) I remember from that were the following--"now swing your PART-ner," "do an Allemande left on your corner," and "now do-si-do your PART-ner."     

Unlike at the dance in second grade, there was no lengthy overview of what all the "steps" are. Luckily, most of the "calls" are fairly distinctive ("you swing mine and I'll swing yours," "yours is fine, I'll go back to mine"), so we were able to fake it alright. 

There were no major catastrophes. At first, we weren't sure what it meant to "promenade," but watching all the other couples linking arms and prancing around in a circle pretty much explained it. 

There were definitely some couples who took the dance very seriously. Giggling like a fool, at one point I was thrown in the arms of Davy, one of Nick's temporary bandmates. Expecting him to lurch around like everyone else, I suddenly realized that he had me a Nazi grip and was leading me with precision around the floor until it was time to fling me back to Nick. Later, while watching him with Sarah, his regular square dancing partner, I noticed they were both dead serious about the dance. With unsmiling concentration, they perfectly put each other "back in the pound" during a later round of dancing.

Nick and I emerged from the dance fairly successfully, as far as I could tell. No matter how confused we were at a given moment, we always kept moving, which seems to be a key factor in all kinds of dance. And later, a fellow square dancer applauded the fact that we "kept smiling" throughout the ordeal, despite any possible confusion. Maniacal smiling, apparently, is a key part of being a real, professional square dancer.