Twenty Ten

I bid you adieu, 2010.  We had good days.  We had bad days.  We had many days in between.  I look forward to not missing you.  I look forward to looking forward and living presently. 

Victory shall be mine!

The AF Melt - Melts in Your Mouth, Not in Your Hand

I’m thinking about food.  I know- you’re shocked.  Well, actually, you’re probably indifferent.  If you knew me personally, though, you wouldn’t be shocked at all.  I’ve had a 20+ year love affair with food.  I don’t know when or if it will ever end.

“Dear Food,

I wish I could quit you!  (said in gay-cowboy-accent)

Yours Truly,

Aastasia Firmbottom”

I won’t delve into our sordid history.  Just know that my and Food’s facebook relationship status is, “It’s complicated”.

Anyway, if the magical food fairies wanted to pay me a visit for dinner, this is what I hope they would bring me:

The Anastasia Firmbottom Melt:

Succulent charbroiled chicken breast

Thick, applewood smoked bacon (with the fat already cut off- don’t gross me out)

Bean Sprouts (warm)

Caramelized onions

Cooked spinach and/or a bit of arugula

Monterrey Jack Cheese

Honey Wheat Bun

Get. In. My. Belly!

I may add ketchup.  Some pesto sounds really good right now but I’m not sure it would taste good with everything else.  I also wouldn’t say no to some creamed corn or sweet corn, or some peas, or some of Nanners’* delicious tomato/squash/onion “casserole” on the side.

Yes, sir, if the food fairies want to pay me a visit, I won’t turn them away.  Wait, Food Fairies, don’t go!  I have someone on the line for you: a Washington…a George Washington…eh?  He brought his buddy Lincoln, too.  They want to say what’s up.  They want to roll with you, if that’s cool.  Get back to me.

*Nanners is my boyfriend’s mother.  She’s a wonderful woman- very nice, sweet, and an amazing cook.  I’m thankful she’s a part of my life.

I've come bearing three gifts.

I don't have Frankenstein, Gold or Myrtle, but as an act of symbolic gratitude to you for reading my musings, today I'm going to share three tidbits about myself, three days before Christmas. 

- I can't stand it when windshield wipers are going an inappropriate speed for the amount of rain falling.  Driving in the rain involves a constant wiper-adjustment for me.  If they go too fast, the mania of the blades drives me crazy and if it's too slow, well, I'm just blind.  It has to be just. right.

- I am afraid of cockroaches...and failure.  True story.

- Although it surely denigrates my professional reputation, at work I dress to amuse myself.  Example: This week, I'm wearing my ugly Christmas sweater to work.  No, we are not having a contest.  No, others are not also dressing up.  I just think it's hilarious and awesome to walk around in a hideous sweater like there's nothing out of sorts about it.  I do this because I would want someone else to do it.  I would think it was funny.  It would probably make my day.  So really, I'm treating others how I would want to be treated.  I'm practically a saint.

Friday Night Lights and Sunday Afternoon Banquets

If I had been born in a small town where high school football was the biggest thing since Jesus was toilet trained, I would be a crazy person.  I went to my cousins football banquet and saw him get “lettered” (woot woot!).  While I was proud of and excited for my cousin I spent most of the time thinking, “Really?!”

My reasons?

A. The banquet was a luncheon, scheduled to start at noon.  While the event started at noon, for some reason unbeknownst to me and all other lunch-eating, logical human beings, food was not scheduled to be served until 2pm.  What did they think this was, Thanksgiving?  WTF, people. 

B. The schedule was not respected.  The events went over their allotted times and lunch was not served until 3pm.  Again, WTF, people?  Oh yeah, and hurry your eating the fuck up because we only have the room until 3:30pm.  Tee-hee. 

C. Several grown men cried during the presentation…the presentation of awards for a high. school. football. team.  Call me a cynical beeyotch, but really? 

A part of me was flabbergasted.  I know it’s not nice, but my first thoughts were, have these people really lived?  How sheltered have they been?  Have they ever traveled, maybe to another country, or at least out of the state?  Have they been to college?  I just wonder because it seemed like this, high school football, was the biggest thing in life.  Like stop the fuckin’ clock, this is where I want to be- forever.  Some men said that “Friday Nights” brought feelings they’d only experience again when they got married or had children.  And I am not sure how that’s possible.  I am not proud, but honestly, I was judging. 

But then my dad said something that turned my thoughts around.  What he said was akin to what the gorgeous Paul Rudd* said in Knocked Up: “I wish I liked anything as much as my kids like bubbles.”  Actually, knowing me, what my dad said was probably nothing like that, but in my head it all made sense.  These men loved what they did.  They lived and dreamed football.  They were proud of their team and they did everything to make it special for the kids.  This truly brought them happiness.  It almost seemed like when people find religion.  They just get it, whatever it is, even if I don’t.  And so I find myself thinking that if I find anything in life that brings me that much joy, I’ll consider myself lucky.  Really.

*Seriously.  Paul Rudd- marry me. 

Dance, Monkeys!

So my dear friend, Sarah Magilla, talked me into joining her for a Zumba class.  Neither of us had ever been before, and she found a place that offered a class free for first-timers.  I’ve been interested in joining a class or trying something different, to mix up my health regimen, which as of now consists of skipping second-desserts and occasionally walking on my work breaks, weather-permitting.  I wanted to join another friend’s softball team, but the moment they started sending information about twice a week practices, I knew we weren’t on the same page.  I can stomach a once a week commitment, but anything more gives me sweaty palms, or whatever that saying is that means it makes you nervous.*  So we went to Zumba.

Now, in my younger days, I danced.  I took jazz and ballet classes.  It was a great workout, and I think it made me a bit lighter on my toes.  I wasn’t half bad at dancing.  I’ve been entertaining the notion of returning to a class, to help get back in fighting form and to regain that “lightness”, which translates well into being limber for soccer.  Zumba is a fast-paced dance class.  While I was a little nervous, because my good friend KChang had an unfortunate stomach-to-bottom incident after her first crack at Zumba, overall I felt confident that I could handle it.

Since participating, I now can only assume that if God wanted me to dance, he’d have made me 50 pounds lighter and given my rhythm.  I realize that when I was younger I was able to fake it, because the instructors, God bless ‘em, counted everything out.  When you were in class, they walked through every single step in a routine and counted it out, usually counting up to four or eight.  Then it was repeated it until it was beaten in your skull and you could do the routine in your sleep.  At Zumba, they perhaps go over the steps once with you before the music starts, and then you just go go go, and try to keep up with the instructor if she adds more steps.  There is no counting.  I would try to follow along, but invariably I would misstep, twirl when I wasn’t supposed to, turn and be facing the wrong direction, or doing completely wrong hand motions.  I found that my body does not move like our instructor’s.  My limbs are not as loose, and they have a very slow reaction time.  When I tried to count it out in my head, it helped, but by the time I felt I sort of had the hang of it, the song was over.  And then we were on to the next song and a new routine.  In the end, I tried to mimic the instructor to the best of my ability, and surrendered to the ridiculousness of it all and persisted even when I was doing something completely different.  I endeavored to get a good workout, if nothing less.  I tried very hard not to trip.  And I laughed through a good third of the class. 

Honestly, I’m not sure who’s less graceful between Sarah Magilla and me.  She just may be my petite, in-shape rhythm twin.  This made the class far more enjoyable.  This whole experience was reminiscent of the times I’ve tried to mimic Turk from Scrubs or Morris Day and the Motherfuckin’ Times’ Jungle Love dance.  Many a time, I’ve jumped around in my apartment, with Mini-Bottom, Sweet B, or my old, awesome roommate, Mija, trying to nail the dance moves.  Each time, I’ve failed.  And each time, I’ve laughed hysterically with my girls. 

I may be out of shape, and I may have the grace of a drunken Tyrannosaurus Rex, but at least I am greatly amused by all of it.   

*I am such a good writer.  Honestly, I’m thinking I have Nobel-prize potential. 

You've just been thunderstruck.

Totally and completely: bad-ass.

And right about then is when I gave up.

So if I were to use one descriptive word to…uh…describe how this morning was, I would use “shitty”. 

An issue at work got blown out of proportion.  There was miscommunication and general clusterfuckery all around.  Emails were fired off, decisions were made, reconsidered, and changed again, all before one could exhale.  I guess that’s what to expect when you work in an ER.  But I don’t work in an ER, I work in an office.  And usually I can laugh things like this off, or at least let it roll off of me.  But this morning I got frustrated.

Here are the email highlights.

AF (to everyone): As discussed, here are notes from the meeting, revised to include your comments.  Again, please let me know if there are any comments, questions, concerns, or suggestions.  Thank you!  (Right here, I’m still trying to be diplomatic and helpful.)

Manager A (to everyone) – Manager B, please let me know ASAP if these changes are okay.  Thanks!  (I’ve begun to paraphrase.)

My Boss (to everyone) – I asked AF to review changes with Manager B to see what she’s okay with.

AF (to Boss) – Boss, I spoke with Manager A and asked if he’d like to review the changes with Manager B and he said he didn’t have time so to just forward him the email and he’d confer with Manager B.

Manager A (to everyone) – I didn’t know that was the plan.  AF, please review with Manager B and let me know any changes ASAP.

AF (to Boss and Manager A) – Clearly we’re not all on the same page.  Please let me know if I’m now responsible to meet with Manager B and relay the changes.

AF (to Boss and Manager A) – And now Top Boss said he may meet with Manager B to discuss the changes.  Or he may want to meet with Boss and Manager A and Manager B.  In any case, I should probably be there to make sure I know all the changes.

Boss (to AF and Manager A) – We are all a team.  I am anticipating concerns from other departments.  (Insert lesson on how to work with other departments for the good of the team, and how I should do things whether or not they’re my responsibility.  It’s supposed to be helpful but feels eerily similar to a reprimand.)  That’s called politicking.  (Editor’s note- I still don’t know if I’m responsible for discussing the changes, making the decisions, and relaying this information to our consultants.)

Manager A (to AF and Boss) – Top Boss wants to have a meeting this afternoon.  I won’t be there.  Take good notes!

I’m not invited to the meeting, nor do I know when or where it is.  About here’s where I realize that I still have no real power, I still don’t have any answers, and I will still be held responsible for all changes. 

AF (to Manager A) – I certainly will.

I realize that the countless emails I’ve sent out with simple to read, detailed notes have not been read.  The meetings I’ve had in person where I’ve gone over everything have not been remembered.  The meetings wherein I’ve invited other managers when these items were discussed, were not attended.  I make probably a third of what these managers make.  And I will still be held accountable for any misunderstanding, oversight, or disliked thing that happens.  Despite my numerous efforts to keep people informed and encourage participation, this incident has lent an unfavorable light on my communication and organizational skills.  This makes me a sad panda.

I am trying not to cry.  When you’re a kid, crying is an acceptable form of communication.  It conveys pain.  When you’re an adult, crying conveys that you’re a whiny pussy who can’t handle a big tough grown-up job, and perhaps you would be better suited braiding hair and baking pies in the kitchen after getting pregnant.  Or maybe just that you’re a bit emotional, and your overreaction is unfavorable.  It could be both.  Or I could be unclear on specifically how that act reflects on me; I may be exaggerating.  It’s hard to tell.

Manager A (to AF) – Wow!  This has all been blown way out of proportion!  Good luck!

And right about here is when I gave up.

AF (to Manager A) – Yes, it appears as though it has.  I am ready for Thursday.  You see, Thursday is the day after today.  Which means that this day is over.  Which is a fine thing, if one were to ask me.  Which one has not.  But I am a giving person, so I give my opinions.  And that was one of them. Another one?  Zombies- overrated.  If I want to watch a movie where everyone is going to die I’ll watch “An Inconvenient Truth”.  At least I can recycle.  Recycling isn’t going to cure Zombies. 

I’m pretty sure the work discussion is over when you bring up zombies.  And his silence reinforces this belief.  Which, by my count, makes me the winner. 

I think the lesson to be learned here is that when you’re having a day like this, all before lunch no less, under no circumstances should you give, loan, or sell, a fuck.  It only leads to impotent rage and frustration.  It is only when you accept the absurdity of your situation and truly look at the events in light of this grandiose context we scholars refer to as “life”, that you begin to relax.  A year from now, I won’t remember this moment, or this day.  Unless I re-read this post, of course.  You’ve got me there, smarty-britches.  Regardless, I likely won’t recall this day without assistance, and for that reason alone, I shouldn’t waste my tears or energy. 

And by the way, I’m serious about the Zombie thing.  I’m sure it lowers my “cool” points but I don’t get the obsession.  I thought “Shaun of the Dead” was hilarious just like everyone else did, but I’m not spending sleepless nights planning my escape route for the rise of the dead.  I’d rather spend my time trying to think of efficient ways to store mass-produced energy, or which foods are not improved by the addition of cheese.  Plus, I was raised Catholic.  I’m pretty sure “dead people walking” is called a resurrection.  Like Jesus.  And Lazarus.  If someone shot Lazarus, I imagine Jesus would be pissed.  He’d be all, “Awww hell no I did not see you just do that after I spent all day trying to wake him up.  Martha, hold these.”  Then He’d take out his earrings and his Halo and whoop. your. ass.  And once He was done He’d heal you, but then He’d say, “And what did we learn today?  That’s right: we don’t shoot the resurrected.”  And then He’d hug you, because Jesus is Love, after all.  And if you still didn’t get it, because you’re inexplicably slow, He’d show you an old “Goofus and Gallant”* cartoon, and He’d ask, “Now, do you want to be a Goofus or a Gallant?  That’s right, nobody wants to be a Goofus.”  And you’d sniffle and apologize to Lazarus, and it would be okay, but quite frankly, the whole thing would be really embarrassing for you.  For everyone, really. 

"DUDE!  NOT.  COOL."  Let the holy brawl begin.

*If you don’t know what “Goofus and Gallant” is you’re either a lot younger than I am or you’ve never been to a dentist or a pediatrician.  Or both.