Sitting at your compy, you've got itunes, facebook, some other facespace duplicate, the weather channel, and sports forums slathered across the desktop. Instant messages throb on the taskbar, and you are intent on revising and re-revising your post attacking a forum troll for being an ignorant poser and not a "real fan." You toggle back to facebook to follow the resulting snarky comments and obscure analogies. Your work is open somewhere on the screen, shrunk to a mini window, a blinking cursor on a white screen. Thank you, Bill Gates, for opening these Windows of opportunity for me. I've got nine windows open and the world floods in to me, all in the comfort of my hamburger pajamas. Or perhaps you prefer to thank Steve Jobs for personal computing. Or Nikolai Tesla. Or whoever. Either way, this is fantastic. Oo! $5 t-shirt with a kitty on it!
Last night, my ordinary cartoon repertoire was interrupted by America Wishes for Talent. Dis-co-nnect. I wasn't up to channel surfing so I chose something serious like CNN and caught the tail end of a feature called "Crackberry'd." It was not as cool as it sounded; basically a bunch of doctors deposing how stressed the average American is and how much they are unable to manage their technology usage. I think that has a lot to do with the American working environment. (Like I know so much about Europe. But I know about their siestas and Germany's vacation season, and so I am on board with Europe.) It also has a lot to do with manners. Just because you CAN answer that email, download that PowerPoint, and dial in to a teleconference any place any time, does not mean it is a GOOD time to do so. The public service commercials for texting while driving follow that idea. "Just wait two seconds or...dead babies." But I also think that haste makes waste. You're not having quality communications and I've had plenty of relationships die when they were relegated to Facebook-only interactions. (It probably sped up the process, actually.) I've never felt that a teleconference was as easy to follow as being present in a room where I can read their facial expressions and get annoyed with their pen-clicking or toe-tapping. The full picture. That's not to say that techie toys don't have their place. They have drastically increased convenience and accessibility. You can't blame the tech toys. But you do have to take control of the robits. You have to unplug sometimes. Put the phone in your purse for your meal. Wait til the bathroom break to check messages if you must. Be there in the moment, because even though your tech toys can be in two places at once, you can't.
Yesterday for work I had to do some research on childhood obesity. That was by far the most depressing news I have heard all year.
And as I'm slogging through hundreds of pages of research finding that we'll all die fat, miserable, poor and alone, I'm slurping a giant Pepsi and my tummy is gurgling with hunger and anger. And I never want to eat again.
After reading all this material about the flaming danger of a sedentary lifestyle, I desperately wanted to jump up on the equipment (I work at a gymnastics club) and do some pullups or handsprings or something. But after 12 hours of work, just go home and make some rice jumble, watch telly and go to bed.
Why is it so hard to get out of the couch potato slump?
The outrageous thing about it is, I really like exercise! I used to be a workout fiend, sometimes even twice a day! I would rollerblade through three towns, I would pound the springs of my trampoline til they actually needed replacement, I would wear out running shoes!
Of course, time is a real inhibitor, something I used to have tons of. Looking back at the days of cute li'l bikinis and short shorts that could barely fit "GYMNAST" across the bum, I had eons of free time and boundless energy. And if I got sick, I could stay home and sleep. Ah, the luxury of childhood.
But I can't blame it all on work, no siree, I cannot. My work actually provides a free gym for me. And my second job is a gym. And even in the past, when I was busy with work, I'd get home at 11:30 at night and go for a 2 mile jog to run off my frustration and energy.
It's a lifestyle.
That sounds corny. But the mentality of hurdling that first obstacle, when you actually put your gym bag in your car and just go do it already. You'll come up with a thousand excuses. I don't want to mess my hair up. I don't want to shower again today. My muscles are sore, my knee is hurting. I have PMS. I have a belly button.
Prank warfare was somewhat foreign to me. It seems like all of the go-to pranks were just a good story, never truly do-able in real life.
When I was younger,sleepovers carried the ever-present threat of bra freezing. Never mind that, for most of my slumber party years, I had no tangible need to wear a bra, let alone one so sophisticated that one would take it off to sleep, but where did this idea come from? Was the hope that, come morning, the little brother would go fishing for toaster strudels and be greeted by a frozen, upright set of hooters? Or did we just want to shame the girl with the biggest jugs by having to go home shivering, or even better, jigglin'? Seems like we didn't ever think that far forward beyond the threat; it was just funny to think about bras, and stealing one.
Lucky for me, my Jenss girls-department special (basically half an undershirt with a bra clip on back, for "learning") stayed firmly affixed to my flat chest with little purpose. But maybe any of you scorned early bloomers weren't so lucky.
There's also the prank of taking the heavy sleeper/fall-down drunk out of his bed and relocating him somewhere hilarious, like the middle of a pond or the drivers seat of a car. This one never really worked either. Though I don't have any friends suffering from narcolepsy, I've encountered some pretty heavy sleepers. And they wake up. Kicking. Ditto for the drunks, but they don't fight as hard. They just go along with wherever you're taking them, roll over groggily and say, "you guys are assholes." The glory of someone waking up, floating on a raft with no recollection of getting there, is a dream never realized for me. If someone has succeeded in this feat, please share.
Now, tissues. Tissues was a fun prank. Tissues was an invention of our own, and it was wonderful. Quite simple: you take a box of tissues. You bury the sleeping person in tissues. They wake up in a snowy dreamcloud. That is all.
But of course, we had already yanked all of the tissues out of the box, so we couldn't stop there. Then you take the tissues up to the second-floor balcony, turn on the ceiling fan, and it's a glorious wonderland of 2-ply confetti. (Save the disapproving wasteful head shaking, we re-used them afterward.) So if you ever came over with a cold, and we handed you a plastic grocery bag of Kleenex, now you know why.
...a prank warfare update:
thanks, Jessica DW!
Sportsmanship.
Some people think it's the award they give to the fat kid on the team, or a way for the coach to play favorites with his pet, or whatever.
I disagree.
Because it's not everything to be the best athlete. In fact, sometimes the best athlete is a real asshole.
In saying that, I may be indicating a twinge of jealousy. Sure, I'm absolutely jealous of the star athletes for which their sport comes easily. I was always the kid grinding away in the gym for endless extra hours, just to be delighted with a third or ninth or last place finish. I wasn't a natural talent in any of the sports I tried, but I toiled and tried anyway. I was never really jealous along the way, but I sure looked up to the teammates who just seemed to get it.
The jelly monster only really came out when those teammates didn't seem to care, or realize just what they had. When they'd throw it all away through blind stupidity. Smoking in the locker room. Doing drugs. Getting kicked off the team for failing grades. Maybe an assault charge or DUI to boot. It seems to be a rite of passage for these champion athletes, coveted and respected by so many people, to blow it all in a fiery crash-and-burn of their celebrity. That's when my jelly monster gets truly angry.
But we love to see the drama, don't we? We wouldn't care as much if they weren't former superstars, if they weren't someone to look up to. Bad news is juicier than good news. Victories are more glorious if there's a struggle and a saga. Celebrity failures are littered all over the telly, often getting more attention than their successful and clean-cut counterparts. We secretly love to see the winner fall, to see their glitter fade.
Not me. I like to see my winners act like winners.
Once in awhile I'll get an odd burst of creativity and decide to make something. It's generally something I sew, like a purse or a meatball throw pillow, and they're fairly simple creations. Some are better than others. They're usually for myself or given as gifts. But where's the dividing line between "oh, wow, you MADE this? That's neat" and"how long do I have to hang onto this %#&?"Well, I'd like to think the %#&? that I've made is at least functional, if not camera ready to be picked up by the Martha Stewart collection for Kmart. You could at least use it twice, get some choice mustard stains on it, then relinquish it to use with lemon scent Pledge or wiping down your Tercel. Rags are very functional. But I found the dividing line. It's right here: Kraftomatic and it's fantastic. If you're bored and have a sense of humor for the silly and ridiculous, click away!
After a few months of haphazard planning, I'm launching this thing. Some people start a blog for their epic travels, their favorite hobby or craft, or their embarkation to a new career. Since I don't have one sole topic to zero in on, I present to you: the whole shabang.
When I was a little tadpole, my teachers summoned unto me: you will be a great writer. Or, she is a great writer. Or, she will have a rockin' career plush with Pulitzers and Nobel prizes. Or, she's great because she never talks so I've got a 1 in 25 better shot at not having a nervous breakdown this year.
Either way, the main point here is that my teachers really thought I was the cat's pajamas. My report cards were an effigy of an prodigal superstar.
Somehow my shine for academia wore off in my later years; grades seemingly inversely related to number of friends. (Only a little bit kidding.) As high school kicked in I became innately "normal" and gradually my writing fell off.
But even being out of practice and having no centralized topic for this blog, methinks you'll like it anyway. Either way, figured I'd put it out there, because sometimes you bite the bear.
It's the statement of doom for anybody. What do you want for dinner? ::Crickets::Nobody knows. Even when I have a fridge full of food, I stand there gawking at the bricks of frozen chicken, the bursting shelf of condiments, the Tupperware boxes of mystery. It's a pickle to be in, for sure. Especially when you're an hour past hungry and trying desperately not to flitter your whole paycheck on restaurants, or flubber your waistline with a sorry case of the McGurgles. Not to mention the angel sitting on my shoulder reminding me what Food Inc. taught me. And the devil on my other shoulder reminding me that the eco/health friendly groceries cost double what I could have paid for the blue light special. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!So it's 6 o'clock. What would Rissa do? Well, I'm no Swedish chef (though I've been known to sputter nonsense words repeatedly, so I'm halfway there) and I'm definitely not winning any rewards for locavore health nut of the week. (Is there an award for that? My love for pizza and roller dogs probably renders me ineligible for life.) But I do try. I try to strike a balance between eating healthy and being thrifty, making something edible without toiling for hours or just ordering pizza. (But I love pizza. Just...so much.) Enough thinking. There are hungry people out there. Bam. Go check out my recipe for the day. It's so easy, I didn't even have a recipe. I made it up.
The sky was a pristine blue. The water, a perfect glass reflection of the clouds and treeline above. We floated casually, a barge of canoes hunkered down with every luxury, cooler and treat you could want. This was no survival expedition. This was the high life, to kick up our feet, soak in the sun's warmth, and do Nothing.
Doing Nothing is not as easy as it sounds. Plenty have joined us on the trip, and halfway into the first day, they get antsy. "Do we paddle now?" "I feel like I should be doing something."
"Ride it out," we say. Or maybe, "oh, we're doing something. We're flushing the mental toilet." I return to focusing on my sunscreen, my beer, and straightening the rubber ducky I have taped to the bow of my canoe as a masthead.
And they itch! They struggle! 'What do you mean, Do Nothing? What are we doing out here?'
The time comes to answer nature's call, and they hesitantly flop out of the canoe. Good humor is waning as they helplessly struggle to swing back in. With shaky elbows and exhausted shoulders, they give up. Stuck in the water. Just can't do it.
Again, the others are disaffected. They're old pros.
I'll throw you a floatie and a beer. Since all strength has gone out of your arms, you are relieved to bob along next to the barge and slug back someone else's half-frozen beer.
The unthinkable happens. The barge swings into a faster current and you fall behind. Rather than pick up a paddle, we throw you another beer. Relax, we tell you. The lord will provide. 'Lord? What Lord?' you think, exasperated, as the distance between you and the barge widens. But, you are stuck out here with these nut jobs, so you do as you're told. You relax. You drink your slushy beverage tossed in after you. You float on, just a bouncy head sticking out of a ratty orange life preserver in the middle of a huge river. An eagle soars overhead. A fish flops by the shore. Kids wave to you from a dock.
The barge has entangled in some obstacle by the shore and comes to a stop. You cruise back to them, having gotten the hang of the float. You generously untangle the boats and the barge breaks free. You are invigorated by saving the day, and feel reenergized to try again to get into your canoe. You swing, you snap, you kick, and gracelessly flop in like a beached whale. Success! The sun blazes you dry, and you are relieved. Warm and happy to be back in your seat, doing nothing. You get it now.
 Canisius women's Varsity 8 rowing on the Geneseo River The women's rowing team for Canisius College has been upgraded from a club sport to Division I NCAA status. [College Press Release]This is a huge accomplishment for a young team - just eight years ago the team was spearheaded by a handful of students. With little funding and borrowed equipment, the club soared in popularity and was soon racing multiple boats. The team even helped the West Side Rowing Club in aggressive fundraising efforts to construct the Frank Lloyd Wright Fontana boathouse. Yours truly played a small part in all this, as I competed in the 2004, 2005, and 2006 seasons. From humble beginnings, moving the team up to NCAA status should provide them the resources, coaching, and equipment they need to achieve great things!  Frank Lloyd Wright Fontana boathouse at the West Side Rowing Club
Hey Bloggy Mc Stalkerstein...
This is where I leave my own glorious unique mark on the interwebs. Sometimes about me, sometimes about other people, or just fun interesting things to share with the world.
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