YOLO

"YOLO is the battle cry of drunk girls at bars just before they surrender their bodies to guys they don't actually like."

Apparently this is what I said in response to my friend as she cried "YOLO!" just before jumping into a cold lake.

The things I say.

This isn't the only time this friend has informed me of either witty, cutting, or stupid remarks I have uttered in the past.

"I SAID that?! Nuh-uh. Wow. I'm amazing."

It's usually fun being reminded of these things I say except when they are stupid. It is simultaneously disconcerting because I like to think I remember everything I say.

This is a perfect example of how memories are emotional. My remarks are remembered because they had an emotional or possibly stunning effect on my friend, just as I remember things she says that strike my emotional chords.

It's scary that we don't remember the same things - that I can have no emotional connection at all to my words but she will remember them for years.

You only live once.

That's why I dance wildly to good music in my car. Great acoustics, volume as loud as I want, and plenty of traffic lights as opportunities to rock out.

I'm reminded of a morning back when my sister and I still attended high school. Mom was waiting in the carpool line with us and observed the two kids driving in front of us whipping their heads around to some hardcore song we couldn't hear.

"Wow, look at them," she remarked, as if this behavior was something unusual.

And my sister replied, "Well, that's what a lot of high schoolers do to wake up and get through tough and depressing mornings," which is valid because high school is hell and music can be heaven.

Sister and I commonly rode with our neighbors who had excellent hipster taste in music and expanded our music horizons beyond the Evangelical realm. We often bobbed our heads in the car on our way to school just like the people in front of us.

But not in the mom van. Mom likes to ride in silence with her thoughts, or lately, alone with an audio book.

The mom story is an example of someone seeing this behavior and not being inspired to grasp life by the horns, be silly and wild, enjoy music to the fullest, and take every possible opportunity to be joyful.

That's part of why I dance in my car - I want people to see me and laugh, and then think, "that looks like fun," and, "why haven't I been doing that all my life," and "why shouldn't I start now?" I want to add joy to the world and show them that it's okay to act nutty because I'm doing it and I'm not causing any car accidents.

Thing is, I don't think it's catching on. Occasionally I look at the faces of other drivers while sitting at lights and such, and I'm pretty sure all of their mothers just died AND they're snacking on lemon wedges and pineapple pieces and experiencing an allergic reaction to both.

It's ridiculous.

I've only ever talked to one other person who claims to dance wildly in his car.  This was a man on an online dating site who was probably just trying to say whatever he thought I wanted him to to get me to like him, so that doesn't count.

You may only live once, but ugh. Please don't use that as an excuse to date online.

Side note: I have two coworkers who have built very strong relationships with significant others they met online.  Good for them.

So anyway, you heartless people - get a life and be cheerful about something! You only freaking live once! Use your driving time to be grateful for stuff, talk to God, listen to good music, and dance (if that's your thing). The fewer lemon faces out there on the roads, the better.

Show Up

Remember how I was talking about those Christmas parties? I went to the fancy one, discovered the Vanilla Melonball beverage, and still made it home safely.

I made friends with the servers walking around with trays of finger food.

I remained in my seat while my "plus one" made friends with every person in the room. I knew I brought the right girl.

I skeptically ate my cold penne Alfredo which had been sautéed in front of me not 60 seconds ago.

My friends told me not to trust the valet parking and so are parked on the street. There was room since everybody else felt trusting that night. Added bonus: I didn't have to ask the valets awkwardly for change for my 20 to tip them, or worse: I didn't have to accidentally forget to tip them and start feeling bad once I remembered halfway home.

There was a McDonald's right across the street in case the food stunk any more than it did. - the finger food really did make the cut though.

And my coworkers spent a good deal of time outside smoking so I spent a good deal of time by myself, and also in the photo booth with my friend. We got a plethora of fun pics, running out at the end of each session and asking the guy Manning the booth, "can we go again??"

The curls I had given my "plus one" had fallen before we got there but she loved them anyway, and one of my coworkers trusted me enough to clip in extensions and give her an updo even after I had done a mediocre dye job on her hair a few months ago.

I got bored at one point and started taking artsy fartsy pictures of the decor: the centerpieces, the wallpaper. The staff probably thought I was either casing the joint or trying to steal their ideas and make my own Ballroom business.

I'm glad my boss paid for me to attend, and I'm glad I paid for my "plus one" to attend. I got my money's worth because she had a blast, and my boss got his money's worth just because I showed up.

Sometimes you just gotta show up.

Pilots

You know how sometimes you forget about one of your favorite albums or artists and then have a resurgence of love for them a few months down the line? That has happened to me in the last couple of days with the band "Twenty One Pilots." Its name comes from a story about a man, his son, and defective parachutes. That's all I remember.

This band captured my attention a couple of years ago at a friend's friend's house. I liked these friends because they listened to alt music and accepted me right away. We had a pancake-making fest and they were appreciative - they let me pray over the meal before they started eating even though they didn't share my faith.

They're the kind of people who play music all the time. It's distracting for me because I'm a lyric-listener. Having a conversation and trying to follow a song's lyrics at the same time is too much even for my genius brain.

I heard these lyrics and searched them very soon after returning home from the pancake gathering:

"Take the pain, ignite it! Tie a noose around your mind, loose enough to breathe fine and tie it to a tree, and tell it you belong to me, this ain't a noose, this is a leash, and I have news for you: you must obey me."

Brilliant.

Looking back, I didn't even realize how very depressed I was when I heard those words. I couldn't believe someone had put a song together that recognized deep pain the same way a very emo/hardcore band might and offered hope at the same time, the way an annoying Christian pop song might.  And they put intelligent rap together with good music.  I fell in love.

I basically proposed marriage to the lead singer in a letter, too. I found the original note recently (back then I scanned it and sent it by email through his agent; who knows if it ever got to him) and it wasn't actually as bad as I remembered, but I was obviously deeply affected by the music he and his band members created.

Listening to it now is bringing back ghosts of the feelings I felt when I used to play it over and over again while making art or driving long distances. I would feel so strongly that I hardly knew what to do with myself.

The dude was singing about the intense mental suffering I was going through, or had gone through and was healing from.  Not heartbreak or situational suffering, but things people with chemical brain imbalances (aka anxiety, depression, whatever) can relate to.  He was acknowledging suicide and self-harm in an understanding light. There was always an undertone of hope, but the real-ness was stunning. Any band can say, "it hurts so much" but somehow 21 pilots was different.

He also slipped in Biblical references and secret "Christianese" (Christianese is a language that Christians use to the unintentional exclusion of others) that made me feel even more connected to him. I won't bother to put in quotes because I just don't feel like it, except one: "we're broken people."

I can probably get a laugh out of any other Christian with a sense of humor about that phrase - overused and overtrue, it means that humans are imperfect, hurting, sick, messed-up - you name it - meaning our relationship with God is broken. Instead of saying these alternate words (perhaps they fear confusing their feeble flock), all of the pastors across the nation, or perhaps the world, have agreed to call humans "broken people."

That's how I know 21 Pilots shares my faith.

Lol.

Anyway, I want to share this because reliving feelings from a year or so ago is showing me how far I've come and how low I've been. It gives me a new appreciation for friends and family for seeing me through that time, as well as a new appreciation for myself for making it through. It reminds me that some people are still right there, where I was, and I hope that they'll visit their friend's friends' house soon where they'll hear 21 Pilots and be given a new sort of hope. 

Grounds For Sculpture

Not long ago I went on a second photo club outing. These photo outings are really getting me in the popular group at the club!

I'm mostly joking, but I just went to the camera club Christmas party and people actually waved at me and wanted to talk to me.  A woman actually offered wine to me!  I felt so in.

'Tis the season of my life to start going to real live Christmas parties - the kind they talk about in Good Housekeeping!  Mom subscribes to that mag and around the holidays there are always articles on how to host one, how to behave at one (talking to rude strangers or how to choose a hostess gift), what to wear to one, how not to eat too much at one, and what kind of wine to drink.

All this is fun to read but totally worthless because Christmas parties are for Stepford wives with whom I have no connections as of yet.

But go figure - this year there are all these parties: camera club, AND there was a post-Thanksgiving party that I think counts, and two work parties - one of which is very fancy. I feel like I'm moving up in the world. Alcohol is involved in all four.

The outing was a place called "Grounds for Sculpture" in NJ and we carpooled. The three of us in one car only ran out of interesting things to talk about during the last hour of the trip back. I thought that was very impressive, considering I'm a youngin' and had to carry conversation with two strange adults my parents' age.

The woman in the car uses unconventional and what some would call rudimentary methods to edit her photos - think PowerPoint and excel, and free kaleidescope apps from online. I thought it was all pretty hokey until I saw her unique and visually sound work. The guy driving the car and I agreed that this lady was a very surprisingly creative soul. I love that she uses the tools she has at her disposal to make what she wants to make - no making excuses about not having the "right" advanced software. Kind of like Macgyver: take stock of what you have and use it to solve the puzzle- in this case, a visual one.

Grounds for Sculpture  was worth the drive and the $15 admission. I don't even feel like listing all of the different kinds of sculpture there or speculating about how it got there (aliens).

Photographing someone else's art is a joy because that someone else already went through pains to compose a satisfying visual experience. In sculpture's case, the artist already did this from all angles. See? I can take a picture of a sculpture from any angle and its creator already helped make my image a success.

On the other hand, with this in mind the eyes of viewers (including my own) are more critical: what makes this image more than a record of someone else's art?

A good challenge and an enjoyable outing.

SEPTA

I'm currently enjoying the distinct pleasure of riding a septa train from Philadelphia back to my home. My sister and I rode out for the sole purpose of eating dinner with some friends. I ate a frosty from Wendy's. 

The guy there commented on how crisp my dollar bills were and showed me I had accidentally given him an extra. I should have let him keep it. 

I had eaten a lot of food from an Italian place at the mall not long ago.

The food was delicious, but cold, which is funny, because the lady in the back seemed to be heating it up for a very long time while she visibly ate a meatball with her hand and kind of stared at me. I got the feeling she might have been poisoning my food back there. 

I told the man up front I wanted orange Fanta. "Well, let's see if it works." (He tries it) "You're in luck! It works!" There were out-of order signs covering coke and dr pepper already.  And the next customer asked for root beer: "Well, let's see if it works." (He tries it) "You're in luck! It works!"

He tried to make small talk with me about if I was going to eat ALL that food and how I looked upset (no, I'm not upset - your service just sucks), and how sometimes days off are more stressful than work days (you know, laundry and such) - but I heard him talking to another customer about how he thinks he should have been a porn star to make more money, soooo...he must find his current job to be too fun or rewarding. 

The lasagna was cheesy and the meatballs were of good texture. The garlic knots were crispy. Just don't go there. 

I just heard one of the train workers say "Nobody gets hurt on THIS train."  I guess he was helpin someone up the stairs or something. It's rainy outside. He must be a cool guy. There are so many cool people I've seen. Or at least interesting. 

Like, a guy loudly talking to his friend about how stupid it is to DIY your wedding, or a very corporate-lookin man with an earpiece and a black backpack wearing a suit and using his black and white umbrella as a cane -like device to strut on the yellow-painted section along the train tracks. There was a man bursting from the glass-plated doors onto the track area with earbuds in and  balancing an open and active  mac laptop on one arm. 

I can't even clean my room without getting my earbuds caught on something. How do you make it safely across a city with a fragile computer balanced precariously in plain sight?

In the 30th street restroom I also saw a towering, slim and gorgeous woman who contrasted sharply with her dingy surroundings. I had gone out tonight thinking I looked pretty smashing. And then I saw her. 

My friends saw her too. We reminded ourselves that we are happy with our own unique gorgeousness and what we really wanted was to just look at her for a while longer. We laughed. Tomorrow, I heard, is "woman crush Wednesday." Tuesday night is close enough.

I have a couple of things to say about the mall back home. 

Skinny jeans (aka second skin, or "the sausage skin fit") are back in style, if they were ever out. And it is very hard in a place (the mall) which is trying very hard to appeal to the masses to find things that the masses don't want.  

Apparently they never want room between their ankles and their jeans. 

Apparently they want their circulation cut off at the femoral artery with "jeggings" and "super skinnies."

Apparently they REALLY want to show off  those glutes. 

Good old trustworthy American Eagle HAS NO WIDE-LEGGED JEANS.  Not even for men. I recall the old days when there were overwhelming options, each with a name, like "loose boot leg" "curvy boot" and "straight curvy" with descriptions on the signs to help make sense of all the terms. No longer. 

My sister and I got it down: walk in store, go for jeans. Point at each pair and say, "skinny, skinny, skinny, maybe not skinny?" And decide whether or not to try on. 

And then? We just asked store associates (or "brand representatives" as we were called in my Banana Republic days) for wide legged jeans. Look for correct size. Try all on. "Yes, no, no, let's get that one." Purchase. 

True sister bonding time. 

We also went to the bank to deposit money which I had forgotten to bring along. 

Yeah, I thought you might think that was funny. I had to walk out and tell the tellers, at a bank, "I forgot my money!"

My sister and I think the trains are germ factories tonight. 

I hate my car. She used to be my poor darling, my pitiful ugly duckling, but now I swear she hates me for something. Maybe she heard me talking about saving for a new one. She rattles and rattles. And rattles. And I swear that one day when I am in the center lane of a crowded five-lane highway with no shoulder, she will give one last rattle and quit on me. And I will cheer because I never have to listen to that gash-dern sound again, and then I will get rear-ended and cause a fifty-car pileup and probably die. Just because my car and I hate each other so.