Lets Dig In: Anxiety Part I (I may look fine, but I'm screaming inside)

Guess what else I have besides depression? That's right, you guessed it, a two for one special in aisle self worth and doubt; anxiety. Yay

There are several varieties of anxiety, and let me tell you I have them all. I live and deal with them all with varying degrees of ... success? But today we're going to focus on Performance Anxiety. This type doesn't just smack me upside the head if I have to give a speech, or some type of musical performance, oh no. Anytime I have to get up and talk in front of people, have to call someone on the phone, an interview, giving a work presentation (even over a conference call), speaking in meetings, meeting co-workers, bosses, or even co-workers working for me for the first time. You may not think of some of these things as "performance anxiety" situations, but I have to perform. I'm the one in the spotlight. I have a job to do (perform).

A family friend visited my dad and I a week or so ago for the day. He asked if I had done any field work recently. And I was explaining why I don't do field work much anymore. But I had recently done a very small survey for a cell tower installation, and I was explaining how just that simple task can cause anxiety. He was shocked to hear how much preparation I do, even for a simple cell tower survey that took less than 10 minutes to actually do. But I do all these tasks and preparations to keep my anxiety from overwhelming me and keeping me from doing my job. I have to prepare for any outcome. Which vehicle should I take? How many miles from my house is it? Are there alternate routes? Is there a gate? Which road do I use as access? Who do I have to call to say I'm coming? Where should I park? What does the area look like? What's the terrain? I Google Earth the shit out of it. I print out maps and aerial images. Check batteries in my backup GPS unit, charge the phone, get all my field gear packed into said vehicle I chose to take earlier. All the day before I even leave to do the tiny survey. I've learned to just not think, and dial the phone number of the mystery person who answers when I have to call to say I'm coming. Otherwise I flounder and over think all possible outcomes of said phone call and I get so worked up, I can hardly talk and form sentences when the mystery person answers. I didn't say to our family friend that the map app on my phone didn't work, so it was good that I had looked at maps and my route before, and that even though I knew where I was going and what to look for, and what the place looked like, I was having to do breathing exercises to calm my nerves the closer I got to the site.

I have to do varying degrees of this preparation for any part of my job that takes me out of my house. I work from home these days, by the way. The more I do something, like say drive to Turlock to do what we call Records Searches at CSU Stanislaus, the less anxiety I feel. I know how to get there. I know several, and have driven several alternate routes to the school's campus. I know where all six car charging stations are on campus. I know where all the pay stations are. I know where the building and room is now. I know my way around the stacks and file cabinets, and how finicky the copy machine is. But do I still get anxious? I do. The last time I went there, four of the six charging stations had blue screens of death. There was a car charging on the fifth one. I was lucky that the sixth and final one was open and working. Otherwise I would have had to find somewhere to charge the car... in the middle of The Central Valley. I have an app for that, but still, I was starting to panic a bit driving from parking lot to parking lot and seeing the blue screens of death. Another good example of what happens when even with all the preparation I do, everything goes wrong, and what happens to me is here.

I have a trifecta, a triple threat. I'm an introvert with depression and anxiety. Let's all have a panic attack! Wee! I know now from life and job experiences I have had what will and could give me anxiety. I know how to control my breathing. I know what works and doesn't work when I get nauseous from said anxiety. I know how to curb it, lessen its effects on my body and psyche. I know to prepare. I know when to say no. I know what I can and cannot do and what I am willing to put myself through. I know all this now. When I was a kid or even a teenager? I had no idea.

When I was a kid, I was shy. I knew that. I took piano lessons from about age 6 to 16. All but I think one of my piano teachers was a wife of a pastor. Whether they were the head pastor, associate pastor, or music pastor, their wives gave piano lessons. Was that a prerequisite back then? As a kid, I loved the piano. We had a piano in the house. I had keyboards. I had piano key wall paper in my room. It was the compromise with my mom when I said I wanted to paint the walls black. As I got older, I got better at the piano. I liked playing for people when they came to visit. I played a song on my little keyboard for show and tell in elementary school. In fourth grade I started learning violin in school. I was in the middle school orchestra and high school orchestra. And I took private violin lessons for a few years in my early teenage years. It was during my teenage years that performance anxiety started to creep in. Playing the violin in the orchestra was fine. I liked it. Playing with a group was fine. I started having problems when it was just me. My private violin teacher had all her students compete in a competition that I can't remember the name of. But if you won your division, you would go on to compete state wide. Anyway, being one of her students, I entered the competition. My dad took me to the competition. It was in a school auditorium I think. I just remember being in this large room and there was a music stand next to a piano and you stood in front of a long table of judges, and behind them was the "audience" (all the other competitors and their parents). Well, the girl who went right before me, nailed it. And it happened to be the exact same piece of music I was playing. I made it through. I was shaking so much. I finished. I did horrible. And after the judges made their comments and such I left the room and puked. Apparently my teacher saw the terror in my face. She pulled me aside after the competition was over and said, "I will never make you do that ever again". She was true to her word (bless her). I never had to enter a competition or perform at her recitals after that day. Some time later, I was in high school, I stopped taking private lessons in violin. My teacher and I agreed that I wasn't going to get any better. She saw my limitations, and I came to realize them as well. I continued on playing in the high school orchestra... in the back row. And I was fine with that. I even continued to play in college a bit. I minored in music and so played in the beginning orchestra for a semester, and played it for a bit, before learning the trombone, in the MLJ's (Marching Lumberjacks).

 My experiences with piano are bit more sinister. Like I said earlier, as a kid, I loved playing and performing on the piano. As I got older and better, I started signing up to play the offertory on a Sunday morning at church. My teacher and I would pick out a song and work on it for my performance. The day would arrive, and I'd get nervous. Sweaty hands and the shakes. My ears would burn hot. I would get through the song. I'd usually do a pretty good job but I would always make at least one or two mistakes, that to me were very obvious. But I'd get done, everyone would clap, and I'd get a few accolades after the service from people. I felt good after, and determined to do better next time. Well one of those next times ended up being the worst experience I ever had while sitting at a piano. Even my mother was pissed off, not at my horrible bombing at the keys, but at what happened right after.

Well I had this big cool idea about how I was going to tell this trauma tidbit, but I couldn't find the song book this particular song came out of, and I can't remember the name of the song, or even how it went. It must have been quite traumatizing if I actually got rid of the book and can't remember anything about it. Anyway, here's the less dramatic version: I bombed. Everyone knew I bombed. But I pushed through and finished. I was almost in tears. I stood up and was about to walk out of the sanctuary to go hide in the bathroom for the rest of my life when the asshole pastor that was there at that time called me over to him... ON STAGE. I don't remember his exact words anymore, but said something to the effect of "good job on powering through that. Go practice some more, you obviously weren't ready, and come back and play it again", then patted me on the back or something. By then I was balling my eye out, snot was running from the nose, face red from extreme embarrassment. I'm an ugly crier. It's one thing to say something after I left the stage, but it was extremely embarrassing and very traumatic for me to be called out, told to walk to center stage where he was and be both "comforted and scolded" in front of the entire congregation. No one would have seen me crying, had I been allowed to flee when I wanted to. I have to note here too that this pastor had very poor people skills, which is why I put comforted in quotations. He thought he was doing something good and encouraging for me when what he did had the opposite effect. After I was excused, I went and sat down next to my parents and cried some more. My mom was pissed he did that to me. She knew how nervous I would get. She wrapped me in her arms and said "do you want to leave?", I nodded my head (since I still couldn't speak), and she took me home. Maybe a month or so later I was slated to play the offertory again, and I was going to redeem myself and play that song again. I practiced my ass off. The Sunday arrived, and I couldn't do it. I couldn't get up on the stage. I told my piano teacher (who was the church pianist) that I couldn't do it. She said okay, and she took the sheet music from me and played it herself. She bombed. Not nearly as bad as me, but she made noticeable mistakes. That made me feel slightly better, knowing that even my teacher couldn't get through that song without messing up. She later told me during one of our lessons that that song was hard and not my style. So we chucked it. But from that point on, my performance anxiety got worse. I got even more nervous. It's at the point now, that I will start getting anxious or nervous days before I have to do whatever it is I have to do.

Now this same piano teacher, who was the church pianist, was grooming me to take her place. She didn't want to be the church pianist. I wanted to learn Chopin, Debussy, and Joplin. I didn't want to be the church pianist. That style of music and playing was not in my wheelhouse. She was shoving church music down my throat when what I really wanted was to learn Rags, Nocturnes, and Concertos. But I never said anything. I was timid. I just wanted to please her and everyone. I eventually stopped practicing what she assigned me. I'd make up excuses (sometimes they'd be legit like when I'd jam my fingers playing softball). And eventually I stopped showing up for my lessons. I quit. I stopped playing piano at church. I lost my passion for it. Had I had spoken up and said, no, I don't want to learn this. I want to learn to play this, perhaps I'd still be playing today. I eventually taught myself to play Chopin's Prelude #4 in E Minor from an "easy" book, but what I wanted to learn and couldn't teach myself was Chopin's Nocturne #2 in E Flat. Which one is that, you ask?

 

After that traumatic experience and being taught what I didn't want to learn, I lost the desire to perform. I found that the nerves would not go away, no matter how prepared I was. And I became increasingly frustrated by my own limitations. I was a good pianist. But I lacked the simple ability to be a great pianist. There comes a point where I just stop improving, no matter how hard or long I practiced. Not everyone has the ability or talent to be a great pianist, and I was slowly coming to terms with my limited ability. It was so frustrating. I just wanted to be able to play certain pieces, and I just couldn't.

That piano teacher eventually left the church for another (her husband was a music pastor). I did not fill her shoes when she left. I did play the violin as part of the "worship team" for a year or so. Which I was completely fine with. Playing with a group on an instrument that wasn't front and center was fine. No nerves, no anxiety. And playing church music on the violin was not difficult.

In high school and college I could pick up and learn a new instrument easy and fast but no matter how hard I tried or practiced,  I could only reach a certain skill level. I always wanted to be better but my fingers just couldn't do it. It was so frustrating to the point I would just quit. I picked up classical guitar, electric bass, and trombone. I took lessons in each, and learned on my own. And every one, I quite out of frustration. What that has to do with anxiety, I don't know. It doesn't, I guess.

I so wanted to be a musician when I was younger. I wanted to be in a band. I wanted to be in a symphony orchestra. I wanted to tour the world and play music. My dad had bought me midi software for our family computer that I could plug my keyboard into. I wrote so many songs. I loved recording and layering tracks. I was showing off a piece I was working on to my then extended family. My then sister-in-law was so impressed (I still think she was just catering to me, but whatever) she wanted to use the song in her wedding. So I worked on it and worked on it, and my dad worked on how to get it onto a cd, and it was used in her wedding. I was so proud... and frustrated, because I heard all the little mistakes I made. I'm sad that all those songs I created are lost and gone forever.

So in my last years of high school and into college, I knew that my dream of being a musician would not happen because of two things: my lack of skill and my performance anxiety. Even if I could have concurred one of those things, the other would have still stopped me.

You know what I just realized while writing this up? I have little to no pictures of me actually playing any instrument. The only one I could find is in here above (my dad found the one of me playing my bass). That's kind of sad.

Well, so now you know a bit about why I'm not a professional musician, public speaker, teacher, or anything involving me being in any kind of spotlight. And I didn't even go into any details about panic attacks, stress induced anxiety, self image/doubt anxiety, travel anxiety, or social anxiety. Oh yes, all those are so fun too.

So until next time... Don't be offended when I don't answer your call, say no to your invite to a crowded bar, or trip to the mall on a weekend. I have my reasons.

Let's Dig In Series links: Religion Part I and Part II     Depression Part I    Obsession

Let's Dig In: Religion Part I

*Trigger Warning* We're going to talk about organized religion and why I don't like it.

I started going to church in utero.  The church I grew up in wasn't the strictest, but it wasn't the most open either. There were rules, and you were suppose to follow them. There were certain things you were suppose to do and certain things you were suppose to say and if you didn't do those things, you were told you were wrong, and you were living in sin and you were not going to heaven because of it unless you asked for forgiveness and changed and conformed. I never felt bullied. There was pressure, but I never felt threatened. I never felt comfortable though either. I never felt like I belonged there.

Being gay was wrong. Being transgender was wrong. Dating or marrying someone outside the faith was very frowned upon. A former pastor was kicked out and his license was taken away because he and his wife got divorced. So growing up in that environment was at times very confusing to me. My grandparents got divorced but my grandma was still a church member. At first, as a child, I just accepted what I was told and taught. But I was at odds with what I was told to believe and do and be and what I thought and felt I was and who I wanted to be. I can remember when I was very little, maybe 5 years old, and my mom or dad asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. A simple question asked to many a 5 year olds. I distinctly remember saying, "I want to be a boy when I grow up". I don't remember what my parents thought of my answer or what was even said but I vividly remember saying that. I was standing in the hallway at our old house outside my then bedroom. I meant it. And I remember feeling the peach fuzz on my upper lip and thinking when will this grow into a mustache? How old will I be when it starts to grow? (The answer is early 20's) Of course now when I see any random hair that isn't fuzz on my face I yank that sucker out. I also remember thinking when I was in my late teens and 20's, thinking that because I wasn't into dating or boys or having sex that I was maybe a lesbian. But then I thought, I'm not really into girls either. So what was wrong with me? I did figure that one out. I am heterosexual, but I'm also asexual and if you don't know what that is or means, you should go figure that out, go learn something and broaden your horizons on what the range of human sexualities and genders are (there are more than two). This was always a conflict within the religion I was brought up in. There were two genders, there were men and women and they had certain roles to play and if you deviated too much from those roles then you were deviant and sinning and hurting god. Well fuck that shit.

It was okay to be single... as long as you were still looking for your mate. "That poor lady. She must be really sad and lonely. She hasn't found her other half yet." So sorry, that you think I'm only half a person for not marrying.

I know that many of you who read this know me personally from the church, but you also then know that I swear a lot in this space and many of you also know I don't go to church now as an older adult. I finally stopped going every week by around 19-20, and completely stopped by age 21. I only go now for special occasions. When my mom was still alive, she wanted the family to all go to Christmas Eve service. So I went because she's my mom. But I wouldn't participate. I don't pray. But out of respect when my dad or other family or friends do, I bow my head.

I'm just uncomfortable there. I've tried other churches, other denominations, and other religions. I'm not at ease with any of them or within any of their walls. I feel like I'm being manipulated there. They use music, lighting, and the way the leader speaks to invoke certain emotions within me. I don't like that. But that's what they are suppose to do. It's suppose to be a "religious experience". How else are they to do it? I don't know, but I don't like it.

So now do I call myself a christian? No. Do I call myself an atheist? No. Do I call myself agnostic? No. I don't know what I believe. Do I think there is an afterlife? Usually no. But then I find myself in conversations with people and I say things like, "well my mom is happy now, she's with Jesus." When I die, will my soul/spirit go somewhere? I don't think so, but then I think that's kind of sad. Aren't we suppose to think about how great it will be to be reunited with all our loved ones again, like my mom? If there is an afterlife, will I go to the "good place" because as a child/young person I "accepted Jesus into my heart"? Well, that depends on which religion you believe.

I start to question myself and doubt myself and think there might be something wrong with me because I just don't feel or believe in it. And I see these amazing and brilliant people around me like my dad who is super smart and has a very emotional and analytical mind who whole heartedly believes in god and heaven and who knows with every fiber of his being that when he dies, he will see his wife again. How can I then, in my own mind believe that that is all bullshit? That religion is just man made stuff made up to make people feel better about those unanswerable existential questions? Does he feel like a failure because his children aren't necessarily religious? Do other's see him as a failure for it? You better not, because we're freaking awesome!

Then I think well I'm a good person. I try to make the world around me better than I found it. So then if I'm wrong and there is a god and the religion I was raised in is "the one correct" religion will I then go to hell? Because I chose not to believe or do I get to go to heaven because deep down, I'm a good person. Are all the other religions wrong? Because if you look at the majority of the earths religions, the big picture and over arching themes are all the same. It's only in the details where they differ. So then are all religions the correct religion? Or are all these people who believe such things stupid for believing? There are some very intelligent people out there who are religious. They can't all be wrong can they? Then I think well then why do I have such a hard time with the concept?

I was religious for half my life so far. I tried. I tried to fit in. I tried to conform. I was in the scouting program. I was in church musicals, youth group, bible studies, worship team member. Even went to church summer camps and conferences. Listened to christian music, went to christian concerts and festivals. I was never comfortable. I couldn't be who I wanted to be. I couldn't be my true self. I couldn't say what I wanted to say. I was never comfortable in my own skin there. Why would I continue to go to a place week after week, year after year, if I was uncomfortable? That's like a slow torture.

Again, this is mostly about organized religion and churches. I have a long list of issues I have with organized religious institutions. Which is why I won't go to church services. (and that goes for protestant, catholic, Jewish, Muslim, Sikh, etc.) Maybe at some point I will delve into some of them, but not now.

People always tell young people or anyone to "just be yourself". Well I can't do that with these walls and rules and judgement.

So am I a christian (religious in general)? No. Am I agnostic? No. Am I an atheist? No. So what am I then? You have to be something. Everyone has to be something. Well, if you have to have an answer now then, the best I can do is, I am human. You may think that's a cop out or lame or a way to avoid the question and answering it but that's all I got right now. I am human.

Is my dad wrong for believing in a higher power? No. Am I wrong for not believing? I hope not.  What you choose to believe is right for you. What my dad believes is right for him. Everyone's beliefs are individual and specific to each. No two people believe the exact same thing. So what I believe is very different than my dad and neither is incorrect. Both are valid. And belief and faith evolves. It grows and adapts and morphs just like we do. We as individuals grow, learn, forget, adapt, and morph our entire lives. My beliefs will change. And so should yours.

Let's Dig In Series links: Depression Part I      Obsession Part I

Ode to a dead friendship

As my dad likes to say, I need to park it. As in, I need to write down what I need to say so that I can park it and move on. So hopefully after this, I will be able to move on.

I apologize in advance for any and all bad language I will most likely use... to those of you with somewhat sensitive ears (or rather eyes) to such language. Sorry.

I went to my all-class high school reunion this past weekend. I wasn't going to go. I didn't have the best high school experience. But my sister and her good friend were going, and they persisted in nagging me, and I finally gave in to their pressure. I was actually having a good time. I got my picture taken with Crazy George. I meet up with former soccer team mates and they remembered me (I didn't have the best of experiences on that team-but they were genuine in their excitement to see me. That was nice.). I went over to see if I knew anyone from my class, and low and behold, I remembered people, and they remembered me. All was well. Towards the end of the day I saw that my high school through age 30 best friend came (I knew her older sister was going to be there). She was a year ahead of me, so she wasn't sitting all that far away. So I kept looking back over to where she was sitting. She was chatting away with some of her classmates. It was getting toward the end, so I mustered up the courage, got up, and walked over to where she was and simply said, "Hey, I just wanted to say hi." That was it. That's all I said to her. She... said nothing. She didn't even acknowledge me. Not even a head nod. She looked at me, and then turned back to her friend and kept talking. Thankfully, one of the people who she was talking to also knew me (We went to Germany together on the exchange program) started talking to me, so that I wouldn't be left standing there awkwardly in silence as my spirit crumpled into a tiny paper ball thrown into a fire and burned to death. So thank you high school German exchange program friend! You are super duper awesome! Seriously. You are a goddamn HERO!!!!!

Now, why did my former best friend ignore me? That is a very good question. I HAVE NO FUCKING IDEA!

A little back story: I've known this person since I was one year old. ONE. My family moved to San Jose just after my first birthday. This person, who was two at the time, was in the same church nursery as me. Now of course I didn't really become a sentient being until maybe age 6. She came to all my birthday parties. I went to all of hers. I ate all her Grammy's amazing cooking when she came to visit. She played all our video games when we got an Attari and then the 8-bit Nintendo systems. She would play with my cats and I would marvel at her goldfish. We never went to the same schools until high school. She saved my awkward ass in high school. She invited me to sit with her and her friends at break and lunch so I wouldn't be alone. She encouraged me to try-out for the swim team and the softball team. I got to swim and play ball with her. It was awesome. She got me into the science club. Even the chess club. However, I just watched her play. Chess was not for me. I only liked playing battle chess on the computer because I liked watching the pieces beat the crap out of each other. And I always lost (even on the super easy "you're an idiot" level). She then went away to college, and I came and visited her. I did my college thing. When I came home from college, it was like no time had passed. We were best friends. She got married. We still hung out. Got coffee. Saw movies. Cooked food. Baked pies. Talk for hours. We even went to Graduate School together. She in Chemistry, and me in Anthropology. We would meet up on campus for lunch. And then she got a divorce. It turned ugly. She stayed at my house sometimes. I went with her to court dates. Helped her move out. She got a cute little apartment just a mile from me! And we'd go get pumpkin spice latte's at Starbucks and eat at Happy House. And then, my sister and I bought our first house.

–and then whatever it was that was so horrible happened–

All communication just stopped. No more phone calls. I sent her birthday cards. I got nothing back. And then I got blocked on Facebook. She fucking blocked me! I don't know what I did. All I can think of is that I moved 30 minutes away. Well, she was 30 minutes away when she was living with her stupid ex-husband, and I still drove it to see her! Maybe her stupid ex-husband told her something about me and she believed him? She's smarter than that.

I can say all this because she blocked me on Facebook, so she'll never see this post. Whatever it was that I did that was so horrible, she never told her family because I'm still Facebook friends with all of them. I would have loved to have talked with her sister at the reunion but when I say her, she was with the former best friend who refused to acknowledge me but the sister did light up when she saw me and we waved to each other very bigly. So I guess that was nice.

I would have been fine if she had told me 10 years ago (when all communication stopped), "hey, I don't want to be friends anymore." I would have been sad and confused. But I would have accepted it. I wouldn't be sitting here 10 years on now wracking my brain for the smallest of memories of what I may have done.

You know what really pisses me off? She never even said a thing when my mom died. Nothing. Not a single thing! Well FUCK YOU! We've known each other for almost 40 years now, the least you could have done was unblock me for five fucking seconds and wrote "Sorry your mom died" and then reblock me. It's not that hard. Co-workers who I didn't even get along with showed more sympathy than you did. Facebook friends I've never met in real life showed more feelings than you. At least her parents sent a sympathy card. It came really late, but at least they sent something. Asshole.

Now I'm the kind of person who is a people pleaser. I HATE conflict. I avoid it. So I almost always bend over backward for other people. I'm also an emotional person. I mull over everything. If you read the previous post you got a glimpse into what happens in my head. I don't have many friends. So when the one friend, the one I leaned on, the one who I shared my most personal things with, just up and walks out of my life without a word? How do you think I took that? Not bloodly well, obviously. Ten years on, and here we are. I'm still confused. I'm still angry. Her snubbing me at the reunion in front of her friends was such a blow. I would have felt better if she'd had just punched me in the face.

I know that it isn't my fault. But because of the way I am, and how my brain works, I keep trying to find what I did wrong. But it wasn't me. I didn't do anything wrong. Our non-friendship is not my fault. But I still blame myself. I couldn't just let it go. I need to just accept that I will never know the reason why she walked out on me. Perhaps now, after what transpired at the reunion, I can finally just let her go and move on. She obviously has.

To My Mom: Part II the road trip edition

My brother and I in 1985, somewhere in California waiting for our "driver"

My mom LOVED road trips. And I'm not kidding at all. It was in her blood. She would get itchy. There was a need to get out on the road. To get out of the house. Away from the familiar.

To have an adventure.

Perhaps this is in my head because my father just wrote about their (my mom and dad's) last epic road trip which was her road trip with cancer. You made me cry dad, that was quite the epic adventurous road trip.

Along the lines of what I wrote in Part I, I also inherited that gene. I LOVE road trips. I need them. I itch. I crave. And I need one, RIGHT NOW. It's in the works, (a small one). It better be in the works, you know who you are, boo!

But Mom's road trips were epic. I'm glad I was included in some of them. Not like I had any choice in the matter. I, along with my brother, would be pulled out of school for weeks at a time, and we'd get in the car, and off we went.

Dad wasn't on these trips. Dad would take us camping every summer, and mom would take us on epic road trips. Perhaps I'm using epic too much, but they were epic. Especially to an 8-year old, who got to leave school a month early.

There were lots of road trips. Mom and dad would pile all three of us kids in the back of a car with sleeping bags in the wee hours of the morning and we'd wake up in Nevada on our almost yearly summer trip to Wyoming. But there are two trips that I remember quite well.

My brother and I at Mt. Shasta

She took us north in 1985. I got to see snow for the first time.

already an archaeologist at age 7

I saw Crater Lake.

She stopped, and I got to scoop up ash from Mt. Saint Helens along the side of the highway. I rowed in a boat for the first time (that I actually remember) in Oregon.

I also met mean sheep at Aunt Babe's house in Washington.

She took us east in 1989. She drove us south through California, through Arizona, (we did stop at the Grand Canyon, brother, I found pictures to prove it) New Mexico, Texas, and Oklahoma to Arkansas. To Grandpa Perk's Ranch (her father).

I met cousins, aunts, uncles, 2nd, 3rd, 4th cousins and I don't know how you're related but you are.

I'm related to them somehow

Learned a new game of cow pucky fights via 4-wheelers. Mom would have to hose us down in the yard. From Arkansas she took us north. Through Missouri and Iowa to Minnesota to a Larsen family reunion. Where I got to float down a river in an innertube and watch my brother and other cousins pee on Wisconsin.

Watch my grandparents dance. See June bugs. Oh and see my dad after a month or so.

hanging out with Cousin Dawn

can you tell we are Pepsi fans?

She then decided that after the reunion that we should take a detour... around Lake Superior before driving back down. "It won't take that long", she said.

Oh Canada!

Canada is cold

Well, we can tell you, they don't call it Lake Superior for it being so small. I got to spend my first night in a foreign country, by the name of Canada that trip. I saw Canadian money for the first time and drank a Canadian coke. And for the first time on this long trip, I got my own hotel bed. I didn't sleep with my mom that night. We saw Lake Superior, from all sides. It's a big lake. Somehow we ended up in Ohio. Where family friends were and their twin daughters put my hair in such tight pig-tales that I got a headache.

But I also saw fireflies for the first time.

From Ohio, she drove us back south to Grandpa Perk's in Arkansas for a bit, and then northwest to Wyoming to the Larsen stronghold in Cheyenne, then finally back home to California.

So now maybe you can see why I call her road trips epic. Especially to a kid. She did all the driving. There are a lot of stories we could tell. My brother has quite a few regarding our Grandpa Perk, for sure. But they are his to tell.

But mom was game for anything. "I wonder what it's like to drive on the salt flats", she'd say. So she'd take the car onto the flats in Utah. "I wonder what it's like to hit a road construction cone", she'd say. So she ran one over in Nevada... and dragged it under the car for a mile. "I wonder what it's like to hit a bird" she never said, but it happened anyway. And part of the bird was stuck on the front grill, and other parts of it were on the back.

It was a lot of miles in the car with mom. We'd listen to tapes. The Carpenters, Beach Boys, and The Nylons were ones I remember. We'd wear the tapes out till they started to warp. And we'd sing the miles away. I'm sure there were boring parts (Nevada and Oklahoma ring a bell) but I don't remember being bored in the car with mom and my brother.

She was truly happy on the road. There was a mischievousness to her and a true sense of adventure. We could go anywhere we wanted, and we did.

When I was a practicing archaeologist, this need of road tripping was satiated. I was traveling. I was on the road. Some places were not so fun, but others were great. I saw things and places that I'd never seen before. I got to explore the Sierra Mountains, Eastern California (Lone Pine), the Mohave Dessert, etc. Now that I'm not a traveling shovel bum, the need isn't being met regularly.

Mom had an epic road trip planned. She and dad were going to leave for it 3 days after she got her cancer diagnosis. They never got to do it. Instead she went on her final epic road trip of doctor's appointments, chemo and radiation treatments, and surgeries. No one thought it would be her last road trip. It shouldn't have been. But she was a trooper. She was adventurous. She was mischievous. She made the most of her last road trip.

It was epic.

I am determined to continue the tradition. For her, in memory, and for myself. Because it is in me. The need. The itch. I have to go. Somewhere. The force is strong in this padowan.

Adventure awaits.

I'll see you on the road, mom. I'll belt out the harmony to your melody.



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To My Mom: Part I

I've been avoiding this blog like ebola. But it is time. I got the headphones on. Music is playing. No more excuses. So without further ado, here is the first of probably many posts about my mom.

Here she is at age 18, a freshman at Northwest Nazarene College in Nampa Idaho.

After my mom's memorial service, people commented on how much I really look like her.  I always knew I took after my mom, more so than my father. But then all these people kept saying, "Wow, you look so much like her, I never realized". Well, neither did I. I do now.

I have her hair, widows peak included. Freckles, nose, smile, eyes (except in color - I got the recessive gene from both parents to turn mine green), body type, height, and hands. Internal things as well, but we won't go into that. I always knew I took after her especially after puberty. That's when you really start to notice things.

Mom and I (age 3) at Grandma and Grandpa Larsen's, Wyoming.

During those fun times of puberty and after in high school and later in my 20's, I did not like that I took after her. And not just in looks and appearance. I was never comfortable with my looks, or my body. I didn't like that I have a widows peak, or a round face, and short stature, or that weight is always an issue of loosing. I hated it. I was so self conscious, that I was too scared to even talk to a guy that I liked. I never "dated", didn't have boyfriends. One in college, but we won't talk about that here, not important to the story.

My mom and I (age 18) at her dad's (Grandpa Perk's) ranch, Arkansas.

I think I even resented her for it. I was adamant not to ever have children, because I didn't want to pass on what I had inherited from her. How bad is that? I wanted to be more like my sister. She was tall, and slender, had a more outgoing personality. I thought she was pretty (she still is, by the way). She took after my dad. She looked like my dad's sisters, my Aunts.

I'm in my mid 30's now and still working through many of these things. But I am so proud, grateful, lucky, and did I say stinking proud to be carrying my mom in me. In my face, smile, eyes, humor, in every way possible. Especially now that she is gone. And I am so thankful that I realized this before she left us. I may not have told her this specifically, but I think she saw this change in me. The change from hate to acceptance to pride and love.

Thanks mom.


 She was beautiful, inside and out.

Next Post

Aw Family

So over the holidays, my entire immediate family (ie my siblings and their families) gathered at my parents house. On one of the days my mom had her best friend take some family photos. Because mom wanted family photos, and we always do what mom says. I helped my mom post some of her favorites on her Facebook page.

My CBF (Childhood Best Friend) commented on this one saying that the picture is great, just not how she remembers us.

Cropped sis out for reasons, not because I don't like her

She should know, she spent a lot of time at our house growing up. And it's true, we were being nice and civil and sort of serious... mostly because we wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible. We had other things to do, like eat and whoop each other at cards... and eat. Did I mention eating?

Now CBF has a point, back in the day this is how she posed for a picture my mom took:

Awww, isn't she just the sweetest

And this is how my brother and I posed:

I'm sure we made mom proud that day

Just for you, CBF. I will try harder next time to be not so serious and be my more silly self.

Save me Lolo!

So late last night I wrote about me when I was 15 here. And I said that I loved playing a game called Lolo on Nintendo. Here is the wiki on Adventures of Lolo. You can even watch youtube video's of people playing Lolo here. I'm not exactly sure why I loved this game so much. I didn't really get into the "epic" games with huge story arcs and battles and whatnot. I would play Lolo for hours. I was obsessed with trying to figure out each level, to the point of utter frustration.

Apparently Nintendo re-released Adventures of Lolo for the Wii in 2007. But it probably just isn't the same. They probably cleaned up the graphics and music and whatnot. The re-release of older games just doesn't work for me. I remember trying to play pac-man on my nephews play station. It wasn't fun. The only way to play pac-man is in an arcade or on the Atari with the joystick and red button. I think the same applies for any old game. It only works right on the game system it was originally designed for. Maybe that's just my "old school" opinion, but I'm sticking with it.

Also before I go back to reminiscing about my cute fuzzy blue ball, there is a vlog I follow at Geek & Sundry called Co-Optitude, in which Felicia Day and her brother Ryon play old video games from their youth (my youth as well, since it was the 90's). It is freakin hilarious. If nothing else, their last vlog had me in hysterics. Just watch it and wait for them to rock/paper/scissors who gets to do the final battle. Just watch it... I dare you not to laugh. I cried. Go to Geek and Sundry or here is the youtube video for it.

Who I was at 15

My Sophomore yearbook picture, age 15.

20 years ago, I was 15. Scary to think about, I know. Once again, I have been silent on the blog. I’ve had plenty of ideas and stories to tell, but I have not wanted to write them out. I’ve been thinking a lot about my college days since the new job started. Mostly because almost every coworker is college age. That’s what happens when you work at a coffee shop. Working at a coffee shop paid for 5 of the 9 years I spent in college. Anyway, I’ve also been thinking about what I was like when I was in high school. Was I anything like my nephews (two of which are in high school, and one just graduated)? Being in high school 20 years ago was very different than the experience today. At the time, I thought it totally sucked balls and couldn’t wait to be done with it and go to college. I thought that at college I’d get away from the stupid people. Unfortunately there are stupid people at college too. I think they are everywhere! You still had to do "research" at the library, the internet was in it's infancy, and I didn't understand it yet. No cell phones, but pagers were cool. I never had one.

At 15, I was a sophomore. I’ve been trying to remember who I hung out with and what classes I had that year. I remember that orchestra started at 7am. I had sophomore english, biology, geometry, german 1, and some history class. Can’t remember which history it was at all. I only remember my freshman history class because it was the first time I learned about the Mayan culture and I was mesmerized, and government/ economics my senior year (which I cut almost once a week once soccer started).

I remember a friends mom would pick me up in the mornings because this friend and I both had orchestra. And because I had O period, I didn’t have 6th period so I got out early, until sports started. I don’t remember how I got home, until I got my license and started driving myself in January of that year. The school was 7 miles away, and the buses were cut years earlier due to budget issues.

I was in the best shape of my life that year. I was on a league soccer team outside of school. I went out for the swim team. So I would go to swimming for 2 hours, then go to my league soccer practice for another 2 hours or so. Sometimes I would play roller hockey with my brother and his friends at M&M prison (my old middle school) before soccer practice that was also there. That year I also played soccer and softball for the school. I was always playing something because one sport would start a few weeks before the previous one ended. So I was in great physical shape that year.

It was the year I also grew my bangs out. It was the only year I ever did not have bangs. To this day, 20 years later... the bangs are back to stay. I never really fit in at high school. I wasn’t popular, but no one really was there because there were over 4000 students. I didn’t have a click or group of friends that I stayed with all four years. In fact, every year was different with different friends at break and lunch. I tried out the Christian club people freshman year and didn’t like them (a bit to high and mighty), I went to chess club with a friend whom I’d known since I was 2 years old from church, but was bored because I don't like playing chess unless it's Battle Chess! I also tried hanging out with her skater friends. I went to science club, I liked blowing up balloons with the bunsen burners and roasting marshmallows. I didn’t fit in with the “sports/jocks” people. I didn’t fit in with the churchies, I didn’t fit in with the science nerds, or the skaters, or the arts kids, or any other group. A lot of the time at break (15 minutes) I would just walk around campus. I know I spent some time with my friend that I knew since age 2. She was a Junior and let me hang with her and her friends. So when I couldn’t find anyone I knew I would find her. My childhood best friend with whom I went to school with since kindergarten had found her place and people with whom she could hang out with at break and lunch (the hill). The friends who I ate lunch with my freshman year... were no longer friends with me. So I leaned on my church friend. We had never gone to the same schools until high school. We had orchestra together. And once I got my drivers license in January of that year, sometimes I would go pick her up and we’d go to Denny’s for breakfast instead of going to orchestra. She was also on the softball team with me that year. We would sit on the bench during games a practice our sunflower seed spitting.

I went through my closet looking for any writing I had done that year. I don’t have any. I have stuff from middle school and every year of high school, except sophomore year. I couldn’t remember why. Then I got my yearbook out because I was also looking for a photo of me from that year and couldn’t find one. I had Mr. Shin for English that year. I hated that class. I don’t remember any assignments or books I read that year. All I remember is that it was second period and there were a bunch of f$cking idiots in that class and Mr. Shin had a hard time controlling them. And one of those f$cking idiots set off a stink bomb once and he made everyone stay in the classroom through break because no one copped to doing it. That’s all I remember of that class. I hated it. I loved freshman english. I didn’t like my junior english teacher but he challenged me to think for myself and not rely on what I was told to think or believe. I loved senior english. I had the same teacher as my sister did 8 years earlier, and she fostered my love of writing.

So honestly, I don’t remember a lot of high school, and a lot less of my sophomore year. I didn’t fit in anywhere, but was never bullied. I don’t think I got shat on by a seagull that year. I turned 16 that year and got the 1988 Mazda 323 stick shift. It was my mom’s car, and then it was my brother’s car. That year he bought his first car on his own, a Jeep. So I got the Mazda when I turned 16. It smelled like my brother’s armpit sans deodorant. He had always left his stinky hockey gear in the car. And I remember when he drove me to school my freshman year (his senior year), I sat in the back with his surf board and his surfing buddy for the day in the front. He’d drop me off and ditch that day and head to Santa Cruz. He’d come back to pick me up... some days a bit later than others. I never really saw my brother much during school my freshman year, but I sure was glad he was there. But back to my sophomore year. It was the year I got my first job too, at the video store that my sister had worked at when she was in high school. Having older siblings was cool. They got you jobs and cars and free rides to school (even if mom had to pay him). Because of the job at the video store I started watching a lot of movies and playing video games. I got to take home the Super Nintendo, Nintendo 64, or the Sega Genesis. I like playing Lolo, Sonic, Mario, a beach volleyball game, and a space racing game, and many others, but Lolo was awesome. He was a blue ball that was trying to save Lala, a pink ball from some evil dude who locked Lala in his castle. And Lolo had to solve these puzzle type games. My boss at the video store was so obsessed with beating the game that he racked up $100's of dollar phone bills calling the Nintendo help line. This was back before the internet people!!

What I learned that year was that I wasn’t as cool as I thought or popular. I wasn’t a great swimmer or soccer player or softball player, but I was good enough. Playing violin in the orchestra was still fun, and I looked forward to our concerts, again, I wasn’t great, but was good enough. I was still taking private piano lessons. I learned to drive. The day I got my license I stalled it on the hill at the corner of Landess and Piedmont, and hit the bumper of the car in front of me in the drive thru at McDonald’s... and stalled it. I was conscious of my self-consciousness and self image. I still went to church and youth group, but I didn’t fit in with them either. I knew my family weren’t rich or poor. I knew I had it pretty good. But I also never took it for granted. I got myself up every morning. I made my own lunch or saved a few dollars and braved the chaos that was the snack bars. I did my own laundry. I did my homework. Got good grades. And that’s about it. I sure as hell didn’t know what I wanted to do or study in college yet.

So that was me, sophomore year, 15 years old. Junior year was the  first stamp in my passport (German exchange program. I spent 6 weeks in Germany, it was awesome). It was also the year I started to think for myself. Senior year had it’s moments, but I couldn’t wait to graduate and get away from all those stupid people. I also never dated in high school. I had a few crushes but I thought they were above me or unattainable, so why even try. I didn’t go to prom either. But I had no desire to. So there you go.

Maybe the next post will be who I was at age 20. Oooooo, so exciting. Not really.

Can I do it? Yes, I can!

So I’ve been somewhat quite here the last few weeks on the blog. I’ve put everything including this blog on the back burner for two weeks in order to focus all my nervous energy toward the Business Plan Competition I entered. Today was the first round of the competition. Lucky for me, I was one of the first to pitch to my panel of judges. As I write this first paragraph I have yet to know if I survived and made it to the finals, which will be on May 3rd.

I’m sitting here on the CSU Monterey Bay campus waiting till 1:30pm for the announcement.

I had written about how nervous I can get here. For this... my nervousness started 8 days prior to the competition day. With a ball of fuzzy in my chest. I spent most of my time reading over my 5 minute pitch and trying to get it memorized. I would wake up in the morning feeling nervous and at times during the days and when I would go to sleep at night. The big “ugh” was when I started breaking out in the worst pimple fest in over 10 years. I even popped one this morning. The day before the competition (yesterday) I felt ok. I finished getting the car ready (gas), quarters (parking), and went to Target and Kohl’s and bought new clothes for the pitch. I got really happy at Target when I tried on the pants and they fit and they were a size 6!! I ran through the pitch a lot that day and evening. I couldn’t sleep however. But I knew that would happen. I maybe got 3 hours of shut-eye.

I got there 45 minutes early. I signed in at 9:30. I was scheduled to pitch at 10:30. They called me at 10:05 and said will you be ready at 10:15? Uh, ok. They were running ahead of schedule. I was actually done and out by 10:30. I got really nervous just before I walked in the room. There were four judges, all male. I had met one of them earlier during a workshop for this competition. I stumbled a bit and skipped a bit, but I think I got my points across and got some head nodding and raised eyebrows and even some smiles out of those dudes. I felt good about how it turned out. No matter if I make it to the next round, it was good to go through the experience.

During the week leading up to this, I kept thinking about how people can get up and do this all the time. And how performers can do what they do in front of an audience. It certainly isn’t in my wheelhouse. I’m actually surprised I haven’t completely broke down and gone into full panic attack mode. There has only been one time in my life that I was ever unable to perform. And it was when I was maybe 14 and was to play the piano for the church offertory. The previous time I did the offertory, I did horribly but trudged through it and finished. The Pastor had stopped me from leaving the platform after and said to me and everyone in attendance that he was proud of me for finishing that and asked me to replay that particular song the next time I was up in the offertory rotation. By then I was crying and just nodded my head. I just wanted to disappear. I went back and practiced and a few months later I was up in the rotation. During the service I was getting really nervous and actually started shaking and crying. Bless my mother, she asked if I wanted to NOT do the offertory and I nodded. She got up and told my piano teacher who helped lead the music for the church that I wasn’t going to do it. She then let me leave and go home.

I’ve seen people go into full on panic attack and it isn’t pretty. I came to realize yesterday that I can do this. I won’t panic. And that I can do anything I put my mind to. I may not do it well, but I can do it! Just look at this.

Click to see me jump off a cliff

When I went to New Zealand in 2009, I signed up with two other REI trekkers to do the Canyon Swing. I think that was the most nerve racking thing I have ever done previously or since, including today! Hopefully you can see the video. If you watch closely and listen closely you can see my legs shaking and my voice quiver. They were not going to push me off the edge. I was going to have to do it. I lingered for quite a bit. I thought about backing out while I was standing there. But I did it. I made myself go over the edge. And what an experience it was. Total fear and then total exuberance and bliss. Pure adrenaline. It was an amazing experience.

So if I can get myself to go over a cliff while in total fear of my life, I can certainly give a five minute pitch. And that realization is what got me through yesterday, last night, and today. I still don’t know if I made it through to the next round of the competition, but man, I am extremely happy right now.

*I didn’t make it to the finals. I was bummed. I really wanted to make it. But I understand that even though I can get up and pitch, doesn’t mean I am good at it. I know it is not a strong suit of mine. I am waiting on feedback from one of the judges. I am curious as to if I didn’t get to go on because of how I presented or the actual content of what I said. I’ll let you all know, when I do.

Again, thank you to all of you who prayed, thought of me, sent me texts, gave me words of encouragement, sent good vibes, etc. Even though I was standing alone up there, you were all with me. So thank you. Truly.

Tell him I stutter

I did not want to do my workout today. I just wanted to lay in bed. Did not have much energy, not that I usually do in the mornings anyway. I purposely put my workout clothes on as soon as I got out of bed, knowing that if I didn’t, I wouldn’t. I forced myself to do it. No bribery or incentives. Just forced myself to put the tennies on and get out the door. And when I got back from the run, forced myself again to do the new circuit routine.

It’s nice that I don’t have to use my old bribery tricks anymore, but that may only be because I can’t spend money. But this post isn’t about why I didn’t feel like working out today. I’ll write that one later... perhaps.

During the run, I was thinking about my anxiety. How nervous I can get. Why? Because I’m already thinking about a short 5 minute pitch/presentation I will be doing at the end of March as part of a Business Plan Competition.

I have talked about my anxiety and nervous tendencies before on the blog here and here but I have never revealed here how intense it can actually get.

In grade school, I remember that while my friends were being pulled out of class to go play on the computers in the GATE program, I was being pulled out of class for speech therapy (back when public schools had money for speech therapists, counselors, and computer labs). I have a stutter. My brother has a more intense stutter than I do. He also got speech therapy at school. Speech therapy didn’t cure my stutter, but I know when it will happen and how to stop it. Which often includes me stopping mid sentence and exchanging words that I know I will stutter on to different ones. Is it why I am such an introvert? No, I think I’d be an introvert even if I didn’t have the stutter.

When I have to get up and speak in front of people, my stutter is always in the back of my mind. But it isn’t the reason I get extremely nervous. I’m not embarrassed by my stutter, I never was. I see it as more of an annoyance, having to stop speaking in order to continue speaking. It interrupts the flow. I also now know why my writing voice is so different than my actual speaking voice. I cannot physically push out of my mouth what I write. I trip over words, easy words. I even have a hard time reading aloud.

So if my stutter isn’t the main reason for my anxiety and nervousness, then why mention it? I don’t think most of you understand how nervous and anxious I actually get. My parents know, my sister knows, even one of my nephews knows. Why? Because they suffer from it to varying degrees themselves. I have also learned over the course of my life to date to hide it. At one of my first archaeology jobs, I threw up on the job site... twice. I didn’t have the flu, it was all nerves, and no one there knew.

I get nervous meeting new people. Starting a new job. Going somewhere I haven’t been to before. Job interviews, phone conversations, confrontations, doing something I’ve never done before, I even get nervous when friends come by (completely silly, I know). There’s much more too. So it becomes pretty obvious that I have performance anxiety.

I’ve broken down and cried after a piano performance and a violin performance when I was younger. Luckily my violin teacher saw how traumatizing the experience was for me and said that she would never make me do anything like that ever again, and kept her word.

So it is easy for me to get to a state of physical breakdown when I have to “perform”. I will get the shakes, ears will burn, voice quivers, sweaty hands, butterflies, my stutter comes out, and like I mentioned tears, and the ultimate, so nauseous, I puke. I would sometimes take ginger pills not because of motion sickness, but because I didn’t want to puke due to nerves. Although, one time I puked up the ginger pill. Oh well.

I still don’t think I have explained this well. Just know that even though it will only be 5 minutes, it will feel like the longest 5 minutes of my life. In the grand scheme of things, it is little. But it is the biggest little thing.

No matter how many times I have done things like this, speeches, presentations, recitals, it doesn’t get easier. I don’t care if you tell me, the more you do it the easier it will get. That is a lie. Especially for someone like me who suffers with performance anxiety to this extreme.

So that I don’t leave you on a downer, because I have been dealing with this my entire life and I understand what my body will do to me, I have learned to not let it paralyze me. I have ways to calm myself. To hide the nervous ticks and the quake of my voice. When I need to, I step out of my comfort zone, and do what needs to be done. They may be the longest 5 minutes of my life, but the shop is totally worth it.

When I grow up...

I never knew what I wanted to be when I was younger. I can remember when I was about 5 or so, telling my parents I wanted to be a boy when I grew up. I thought the peach fuzz on my lip would grow into a mustache. Thankfully, it never did. When I was a child, besides turning into a boy, I wanted to be a Park Ranger. I thought they were cool. I still do think they are cool. Also wanted to be an Olympic Athlete, and an Astronaut, even after watching the Challenger explode on live tv in my 2nd grade classroom.

In 1993, after watching Jurassic Park I decided I wanted to be a Palaeontologist. Then I wanted to be a Geologist, Coroner, a fighter pilot, a Navy Seal, and an Author. After watching Dante's Peak in 1997, I wanted to be a Vulcanologist. Then a rescue squad member, Firefighter, Smoke Jumper (Hotshot), EMT, Script Writer, Set Builder, Coast Guard, Photographer, Columnist, Travel Writer, Pastry Chef, and a Forensic Anthropologist. There was also Professional Musician, Mountain Climber, Explorer, Naturalist, Adventure Travel Guide, Oceanographer, Glass Blower, and Welder.

In 2005, I got my first Archaeology job. But I didn't stop. To survive as a successful archaeologist, one needs other skill sets. So I thought Biologist, Botanist, Geologist (again), Forensic Anthropologist (again), Geographer, and Osteologist. I never did any of those, perhaps a reason I'm no longer employed as an archaeologist. Then I thought, time for a new career as a Landscape Architect, Construction Worker, Park Ranger (again), Freelance Writer, Adventure Tour Guide (again).

Right now I'm trying out Entrepreneur.

But seriously, I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up. Anyone have any ideas?

Butt I...

So apparently admitting that I have shat myself was a big hit. That post got the most page views ever... well except for the one on space invaders. But that was most likely by accident by people searching for blogs about gaming. My nickname in college wasn't loggs for nothing. Not saying that I did that in college as well, only that I was willing to share, whether you wanted me to or not, about my bodily functions. It was college, give me a break. So in honor of my embarrassing moment, I’ve come to the realization that embarrassing myself is good for the blog. You all seem to like it. It is somewhat liberating in a way.

How do I top shit? With this little sweet cherry from my childhood of course.
It starts out great. It’s the summer of 1986. Twas a good year. And I’m 8 years old.
*
*
*

Good form.
Nice 1980’s short shorts.
Cute little haircut.
A wide open teammate.
*
*
*
to
*
*
*

total girly girl bubble butt flail.

the tangent of my tangent, say wha?

I have been contemplating on whether or not I should write a sort of Christmas Letter blog post or not and how or what themes I should be making this blog as a whole. I had mentioned before that it all started as a way to explain and let my family and friends experience my life as a working archaeologist. However, I am not a working archaeologist anymore, and haven’t been for almost two years now. That part of my life seems to be over now. So the blog seems to be more of a general, “this is my life now” sort of deal. Which is fine. Nothing wrong with that. But I wonder if it is interesting anymore for the few readers I have, and for myself. I feel a sense of obligation to keep writing. I’ve talked with my dad about this often when he says, “I wonder about starting my own blog”. I have plenty to say. Blog ideas pop into my head all the time, I just don’t write them all down. Writing is tedious. There is a reason why I have never written a novel. I have an entire bookshelf of my own work in my head. And it will most likely remain there. I can’t seem to take the time to write it all out. It is all so visual in my head, that taking the time to write out in text what I see visually is just not appealing.

Random tangent there, if there ever was one. I am also thinking about when I should start up the webpage, blog, twitter, facebook, social media spew for my shop. Part of my marketing will rely heavily on social media. I was planning on starting a blog for the shop. Starting with the acquisition of the loans and investments, and all the preparations. Giving people “the story” as it happens. The highs and lows, struggles and victories up to the opening. The adventures we are going to have in retrofitting, remodeling, finding the perfect gems of fixtures and equipment. And then continuing on with the adventures of recipe building and the day to day running of a quirky little shop. All through the eyes of the fictional Jack, of Jack Diddly Squat.

Once that happens, will I still find the time to write here? I don’t know. It’s not like I have 100’s or 1000’s of readers. I have maybe 30 on a good post. Leaving this blog behind will not be devastating on anyone. The world will not end because of it. I don’t have that kind of power.

Everyone seems to reflect this time of year, myself included, obviously. This certainly isn’t how I saw my life turning out way back when I thought about what I wanted to do/be growing up. I never thought I’d become an archaeologist. And I certainly never thought I’d become an entrepreneur... in progress. I never thought I’d have an advanced degree, or that it would take 9 years of college education to get it. I never thought I would live here in Gilroy... and like it. I never thought I’d live with my parents as long as I did or that living with my sister would be an option.

I always thought I’d be married by now. I can’t remember now if I wanted kids when I dreamed about my future as a child. I don’t want them now. A partner - yes, kids - no. Could someone change my mind - possibly, but highly doubtful. I have no desire whatsoever to experience pregnancy, childbirth, nursing, or the responsibilities of parenthood. I don’t feel the need to “carry on my line”, my siblings have done that for me. Would it be fun to have a little “mini me” running around? Sure, but that is also one of the scariest things, ever! I have nephews. That is enough for me. I just have to hope now, that when I become old and certifiably crazy, that one of them will take me in. There are four of you, you can draw straws.

Yet another crazy tangent. This entire post is a tangent of a tangent. Ponder that for a while.

ah, high school, how I loathe you

As promised, my one regret about High School. I played sports all four years of high school. As a freshman, it was just soccer. As a sophomore it was soccer and swimming, junior year it was softball and soccer, and senior year, just soccer. As you can see, I liked soccer. I started playing soccer when I was probably 6 or 7 years old. My best friends dad was her soccer coach and I wanted in. I played on some sort of team from that age till my senior year of high school.

Now I know I was not the fasted, or had the best tricks, or the strongest kicks. I knew that. I was never the star player, nor was I the worst. I was kind of right in the middle. And because I knew that, I wasn’t a ball hog, or tried to be a superstar. I was one of those team players. I had my moments of brilliance, but most of the time I was passing to someone who was open or had a better advantage.

By the time I got into high school, I was comfortable as a mid fielder. Not a striker in the front or a defender in the back. In the middle. Mid fielders are to run back and help out the defenders and run forward to help out the strikers in the front. Hence there is a lot of running involved. Part of being a mid fielder is endurance. That I had. One particular coach I had saw that in me. He saw where best I would fit within his team and knew how to exploit my skills on the field.

All that to say, on the high school team, my skill set was not desired. I got to play quite a bit as a freshman. There was no jr. varsity team at the time and we were in a division that had very poor teams. The next year, my school was moved into a tough division, and the school allowed us to have a jr. varsity team. I was put on that team as a sophomore and as a junior. I didn’t mind to much, because I got to play in every game.

Senior year. Seniors aren’t allowed to play on jr. varsity. The coach was sympathetic to the few of us seniors that were on the team since our freshman days and gave us spots on the varsity team. She sat us down at the end of try-outs and said she would give us spots, but that we were going to be bench warmers. This was the first time I should have said thanks but no thanks and walked away.

That year was spent watching from the bench, maybe playing the last 5 minutes of a game we were either loosing horribly or winning greatly. The bench warmer seniors were looked at by the rest of the team with either distain (seeing that we replaced younger, better players) or sympathy in a bad way (as in, look how sad). I felt it, and I’m sure the others did too. There was one particular game I remember. I don’t remember who we were playing, but all the seniors got to start the game, as per tradition. Our coach would then slowly pull out the senior bench warmers one by one and replace us with her starters. We were loosing the game pretty bad, so our coach started putting us bench warmers back in to let us play. One of our players who was in the sweeper position behind the defenders was getting pissed off that us bench warmers were back in the game. She yelled something to the effect of, “why are you putting these stupid people in the game, they suck”. I happen to have been standing right next to her when she said it. She looked at me and said, “well not you, you’re okay”. The coach kept us in the game but moved her to the front to keep her away from us.

That was the moment I wish I could have changed. I wish that I had had the balls to yell back at her something, instead of taking it. And I wish I would have walked off the field, handed my jersey to my coach, and walked away from that season and that team. But I didn’t. I stayed. I finished the season, and put up with being dissatisfied.

I haven’t played ever since. There was one other time that year when a lot of the players, one in particular voiced their displeasure of me being on the team, and that was when the yearbooks came out. I got pictured in the yearbook. I overheard this one particular person get all in a hissy that someone like me got featured and not her who was a star player. I shrugged it off at the time, but it hurt. It's the picture at the top of this post.

So there it is. I wish I had not played on the team my senior year. I enjoyed playing the first three years. I liked my coach... I didn’t like the assistant coach. He may have been another reason why I didn’t get a chance to play much. He had his favorites. His players from his league team. The high school team was made up of so called stars. Mostly they were ball hogging, glory seeking, whiney bitches. And I didn’t fit that mold. So glad I didn’t fit that mold.