Be Nice! A Message of Cheesy Self-Development

I have no natural aptitude or developed skill for scheduling in advance.

Please tell me where to be, when to be there, and what to do. I will gladly do that for you. If not, spontaneously call me and hey let's go do that right now! Awesome!

Ask me to coordinate something or, have mercy, give you a where, when, and what? Please don't. We'll both be happier if you don't.

I only learned how terrible I am at scheduling after being hired for a job where 70% of my workload is event coordination. How I've managed to muddle through is in large part thanks to those around me, I'm sure.

Let me give you an example.

I committed to giving a presentation in the community at 7pm on the 20th of March at the local bookstore. I knew about this date, time, and location two months ahead of schedule.

My task was to make a plan for getting myself from the office to the presentation.

As the title of this blog suggests, I am without car. I have very generous housemates who are willing to let me borrow their car for occasions such as this. When do I manage to tell them the date, time, and location of this presentation? Two night before it happens.

Another in the long list of, "You know, this would've worked out better had you given us a bit more warning."

But short-term, practical planning is not the way in which my brain functions.

I did get to borrow the car. But only after I drove them 20 minutes home, then drove 20 minutes to the presentation, all the while thinking (1) "Oh my god you're an idiot idiot stupid idiot when will you ever ever learn," and (2) "I hope I'm not late I hope I'm not late oh for the love of all that is good don't let me be late."

And that's how I think about it when things go wrong. Welp, you're pretty shitty right now, Lynnette. You're probably always going to be shitty when it comes to this. You've tried; you've failed. What's left to do? Maybe go crawl under a rock and grow some moss.

Ouch.

I've been lucky enough to have a long line of people in my life who are willing to be compassionate to me when I am not willing to be compassionate to myself.

While I remarked how dumb I felt for my failures at scheduling on the drive home before the presentation that day, my housemate told me, "At least people around you have realized that and are willing to work with it instead of dragging their feet. I love you dearly, but you're not very good at this, no." She even topped it off with a couple of reassuring pats and a laugh.

I've only recently begun to learn even a tiny modicum that it's ok to be forgiven by others for making mistakes. I still marvel that when I do something downright aggravating/stress-inducing/a major oversight, people are willing to be my friend afterward.

Caring, a strange and foreign concept.

So news flash, Lynnette: It's ok to forgive yourself, too.

Even Science and Ted Talks say so.

The Space Between Self-Esteem and Self-Compassion

It might boarder on redundant to say that it's not an easy thing to do. It often means admitting that you've failed, that you're average. It also means having to take responsibility for a mistake and working toward being better in the future, and most of us know that complaining and doing nothing is much easier.

But how awesome not to constantly feel like a fuck-up, maybe even like a human being, maybe even happier sometimes?

Well, pretty damn awesome.

Not-so-incidentally, thank you to all of my friends who have given me the compassion that I haven't been able to give myself. Hopefully I will continue to learn from your example. And hopefully you are as nice to yourselves as you are to me.

Watching Star Wars is Now a Thing

Let me describe for you what is happening in the scene below.

Also a game of Exactly How Much Stuff Can We Fit In The Hammock?

Lynnette’s train of thought: “Oh, there’s a hammock in the basement?! Maybe I’ll relax and read in front of the fire.”

Actual series of events: Luke (helmet) pilots the speeder around the planet of Endor while Leia (small boy) and ewok (me) hold on for the ride.

To those of you who heard me profess how I had absolutely no desire to ever watch or gain knowledge of Star Wars I say, “Cute kids be cute.”

And it’s important to be able to recognize at least some characters and story lines when playing Star Wars while adorable children, duh.

Unless, of course, you're playing Jedi Knight vs Wonder Woman, but that's a different story.

While I still have no intention to watch Star Wars at the behest of a future partner, I will give in and watch some for these two boys.

Grey Hair and Sisyphus

A momentous occasion marking the passing of age: Today, I discovered my first grey hair.

There it is, perched atop my head.

How do I interpret this?

(1) The part of my personality that is a 60 year old woman who loves crosswords, birding, and Antiques Roadshow has decided to show itself physically.

Alternately:

(2) Girl's hair goes grey at 22! Undeniable proof that millennials have it harder than any previous generation!

Alternately:

(3) Blah-de-blah genetics.

Alternately:

(4) I'm just distinguished.

Does this hair give me license to be mysterious and mischievous?
Oh tell me it does.

A witty phrase marking the passing of age: Two days ago, my friend called me their "sisyphusian hero."

Able to work valiantly toward nothing, capable of toiling toward the uncertainty, the lack of progress that we all will face.

And so,

(5) The marks of adulthood have upon me descended.

I shall not pluck it out.

In the City

Below you will find more evidence that I am (1) a country girl, (2) terrible with machines, and (3) likely to one day have an interaction on the street not go so well.

My housemates let me borrow their car for the afternoon, so yesterday I ventured down to Brattleboro for a day of shopping at the co-op and generally eating too much.

I know how co-ops work. Nothing at all strange there. Unless you want to count the men in skirts and lipstick doing their grocery shopping as strange, but I call that fucking awesome.

The general situation gets slightly more embarrassing and interesting as I stand in front of the "pay and display" meter at the public parking lot, baffled for all I'm worth as to how it works.

This is the part where a friendly stranger steps in to help the visibly incapable girl who JUST WANTS TO PARK WITHOUT GETTING TOWED, OK?

Used to lots in Minnesota where you get a ticket, stay as long as you like, then return the ticket and pay for the amount of time that you've parked, the name "pay and display" passed straight over my head.

You pay first. Then you get a ticket and display it on your dashboard, the friendly stranger explains.

This leaves me with mental palm to mental face. The obvious always escapes me.

They say you never know who you'll meet in Brattleboro. It's full of artists, organic hippy nutters, graduate students, and, in the warmer months, people without tops on. (There are apparently a distinct lack of public indecency laws in the town.)

The friendly stranger turns out to be Boxcar Jim, a semi-itinerant, sometimes-musician who was just kicked out of his on-again-off-again girlfriend's house last night and could really use any spare change you might have.

Will 30 cents do? I just spent all my change in the meter.

Sure. It was nice to meet you.

Somewhat wide-eyed and with my culturally conditioned damsel in distress instincts switching on, I walk away thinking about how little I really know about living in a city.

Boxcar Jim wasn't actually dirty or rude or threatening, as city people often characterize the less fortunate. He was kinda cool.

Did he "take advantage" of me by asking for my spare change after helping me? No more than the friendly stranger as the service counter earns their wage by helping you.

It all makes me wonder whether I could live in a city. Maybe I like to keep my eyes wide.

Art, Awe, and Adventure

Art, Awe, and Adventure: apparently my top three values according to one of those sappy self-reflection exercises I completed at professional development training a few days ago.

Well, sounds pretty accurate.

In that spirit, here are a few (hopefully) Artistic photos that I took of the Awe-inspiring forest which is my backyard here on my Adventure in Vermont.

What if we ascend the fallen trees? The forest grows anew.

I'd Be Outside, If I Could

Our attempts to stay warm involve electric heat, two fires, and quilts covering all the windows.

That's because it got to 14 degrees below zero last night, people. Negative 14!

Alright, so it's not the worst temperature I've ever lived through, but it is really cold for Vermont.

A house with two-story floor-to-ceiling picture windows is not built for this kind of cold.

I'm gonna freeze my toes off.

I also wish it wasn't so damn cold because when the weather is a balmy 35, the winter sports rock, as evidenced by the following pictures.

Don't I make a picturesque postcard with a hockey goal and a
five-year-old on a snowmobile zooming through the background?

Yours truly went ice skating on a genuine frozen pond.

It's right out of a holiday movie. Including all of the lumps, bumps, and face-plants.

I was told that the neighbors had fun watching me and reminiscing about when they used to be young enough to skate the pond in the winter.

Or watching me face-plant.

Either or.

Slightly closer up!

Once I activated some muscle memory and could manage to call myself a decent skater, I took my little housemate around the pond.

 Later, there was hiking deep into the national forest and across frozen swamps.

I couldn't resist throwing in a little G.

But for this weekend, I'm housebound by the bad weather.

Now there's nothing to do but hunker down and prepare for the impending ice storm.

This includes hauling fire wood, hoping the power doesn't go out, baking cookies, writing letters, and dancing around the living room like a goofball.

A pretty typical couple of days, when all is said and done.

Christmas, Caffeine, and Minnesota Public Radio

A story of sweet, sweet Christmas gift mockery

and why I turned the radio up too loud.

I'll admit that my family back home has never been big on decorating for Christmas, but my Vermont family takes holiday decorating to an entirely different level. One day a few weeks ago literal boxes of Christmas goods were unpacked and festooned about. They even switched out every dish in the house to something Christmas-themed. Plates, mugs, bowls. All of it.

Well, I guess I was spared the silverware. They used to change that, too, but find it too be too much of a hassle.

The sudden upsetting of what had finally become familiar and part of a comforting routine was too much for me. Panicked by the foreign tradition, I asked, "Can I at least keep my favorite coffee mug out?!?" I don't think it too much of a luxury to want comfort in my morning cup of coffee.

Yet the reply was a ribbing, "No! It's not Christmas themed!"

Woefully and grumpily, Christmas came between me and my caffeine.

However, a joyous thing happened on Christmas morning. I was gifted by my Vermont family a giant, obnoxiously-colored mug of my very own, just like the favorite they had insisted I put away.

And I made this face.

The Christmas dishes are still in the cupboards, but I can parade around the house drinking my coffee out of my not-even-remotely-holiday-themed mug saying, "Hah! You can't force me to put it away! It was my CHRISTMAS gift!"

Oh to be properly caffeinated!

But that's not even the end of the story.

As I listened to the Current from Minnesota Public Radio today at work, as I often do, they asked listeners to send in stores of the best/worst Christmas gifts they received this year.

As the story of my not-Christmas mug was recited on MPR, I cranked the volume and made my co-workers listen. HEY, I WAS ON THE RADIO, GUYS.

But that's not even the end of the story.

No, I used part of my work day today talking to a DJ who was filling in for the usual host because HEY, IT'S A SMALL WORLD AFTER ALL, GUYS. The man who picked and read my story to all of the listeners turning in at 2:30 EST today lived and worked for four years in Manchester, Vermont, 20 minutes away from my office. We'd been to the same bars, coffee shops, and bookstore. I had even conversed with his ex about lingerie in the underwear shop that she owns.

Merry Christmas, indeed.