On the Team

After school on the last day of sixth grade, I stood brooding in the lush, fresh spring grass of a youth soccer field. A raw, rugged smell rose up from the newly thawed earth beneath my cleats. Clouds, thin wisps of pure white, stood still in the blue sky. Parents cheered from the sidelines. It was the last game of the season, and the air was alive with the anticipation of another summer.

But I wasn't happy to be there, young and free to run wild with the others on my team. No, if it were left up to me, I'd have spent the afternoon fulfilling my uninformed notions of how adolescent life was supposed to be. I never thought too far into the specifics of what that might actually entail, but I knew it didn't involve soccer. My ideas were mainly influenced by after school TV sitcoms, which always left me with the distinct feeling I was being left out of something important to my development.

Luckily, my dad was the assistant coach of the team, so I had a direct source on whom to take out my frustration. To punish him for making me go to my soccer game instead of say, an end of school pool party, (that's probably what would have happened on Full House), was my only relief from the unjustness of the whole situation. To carry out this punishment was easy enough: I simply wouldn't participate in the game.

Violet can vouch for what follows. She was there that day because her life was equally as lame...maybe more-so (after all, it wasn't even her soccer team).

I'm sure I had been giving my dad hell all day, probably all week, about making me go to that game. In retrospect, I see that I played it all wrong. The best thing to do would have been to act like I really did want to go, up until the very last minute, then feign sickness. However, despite my persistent appeals, my dad had somehow gotten me out the door, into the car, and to the game, probably picking up Violet somewhere along the way. The last hurdle would be getting me onto the actual field, but that wouldn't be a problem; I had a plan. It didn't matter what position they stuck me in. I could be goalie, for all I cared, but I think I played defense. (I always played defense).

For most of the game, as with most games in general, I stood vaguely in the background and successfully avoided any direct interaction with the ball. But that could only last so long. And of course, it's not the standing around waiting part that I remember clearly. Is it ever?

There I was, standing alone somewhere off in no man's land, gazing into the sky or trying to somehow communicate with Violet. Whatever it was I was doing, I definitely wasn't paying attention to what was happening in the game. Suddenly in my abstraction, all the action was rushing right in my direction. I jumped alert, not out of a desire to defend my team but out of sheer panic and fear. A herd of girls quickly barreled directly toward me, the little white ball bouncing wildly from foot to foot, team to team. And then, right to me.

My moment had arrived. It was now or never. I had been on the same soccer team since first grade and our coaches had always been kind and facile. They didn't act like the other dads, stressed out, running back and forth on the sidelines, shouting at us to do better. There was never a pressure to win; we usually didn't, and that was okay. But all of a sudden, it felt different. For maybe the first time ever, I felt the fate of our team rested on me. It was in my power to kick that ball right on back to the other side of the field, maybe even indirectly enabling one of the better players on our team to score a goal.

And I totally could have. But I didn't. I stuck to my guns, however self-involved and uninformed.

The ball came toward me and stopped a couple feet away. My blood went cold. I heard the head coach yelling. “Get it! Get it! It's yours!” It was, and I thought about just kicking it; the opportunity was clearly there for me to do something for the good of the team instead of serving my own selfish purposes. But instead I stood, frozen, angry, and already disappointed in myself. As I deliberated, a player from the other team sprinted up to me and snatched the ball, dribbling it directly toward our goal. “Aww...come on!”I heard my coach say, throwing his hands down in disappointment. “What was that?”

For the rest of the game, I wandered aimlessly around the field, avoiding the ball at all costs. Not one of my team members, nor either coach, addressed me about what I had done, and no one outwardly held me accountable for our loss.

I have no idea what I went home and did that night after the game. If it measured up to whatever standards of a fulfilled adolescence I held at the time, I don't remember now. I spent the rest of the summer at a day camp for theater kids, feeling unsure of myself. In the fall, I was back on the team for a another season.

What I Did on My Day Off: An Essay by Paula Fader

The first thing I did this morning was wake up early to see my boyfriend off to work. This began with ignoring two separate alarms, followed by groggily rolling around in bed while he got ready. I think it's really nice that I can offer him a pleasant send off in the morning.

After he left, I figured I'd start the day off right by making the best use of my time. I'd hop right up out of bed, grab a fresh cup of coffee, and slap on a DVD. Because I didn't have access to a TV or DVD player, I spent the next ten minutes googling how to open the CD tray on a Mac. Unfortunately, I was unable to follow through with my plan due to some technical difficulties.

When I got over the initial disappointment, I decided the day could still be spared. Instead of crawling back under the covers and crying softly about my wasted potential, I got in my car and drove home. I arrived safely and promptly decided to reward myself with some pancakes. This decision proved nearly disastrous when I discovered we were out of butter. Luckily, I eventually found some in the refrigerator.

I spent the rest of the morning doing laundry, cleaning the bathroom, and watching Gilmore Girls. I also did five reverse sit-ups and a few sun-salutations that I learned in yoga. Then I decided it was finally time to take some action and get to writing. Except first I was hungry so I had to make a bag of sweet potato fries and some garlic mayonnaise to dip them in.

Once my hunger was satiated, I got dressed and left the house for my favorite combination coffee shop and writing spot. But there was a really interesting radio program on in the car about the effects of stress on the human body, so I had to drive around for twenty or so minutes before parking. When I got out and started walking, the whole world suddenly went funny and the left side of my body felt numb. “Oops!” I thought. “Must have inhaled too many chemicals while cleaning the bathroom this morning! How silly of me.” To avoid a full blown hypochondria-induced public melt down, I quickly headed back to my car. I didn't feel like I could walk in a straight line, but driving was no problem.

From here, I had to make some quick decisions about the best course of action. I knew I needed to get out of the scrutiny of the public eye and to the relative safety of my home, and soon. First, though, I needed to pick up something sweet to make myself feel better after that close call. I started driving toward McDonalds, knowing that an Oreo McFlurry would do the trick. A few minutes later in the drive-thru line I panicked slightly about being stuck in an enclosed space, so I backed right up out of there and straight to a nearby liquor store for a pint of Ben and Jerry's. Another close call.

Back at home, I decided it would be best not to take any more chances. I gathered up all the animals at my house, got under a blanket, and turned on the TV. Soon enough, the pint of ice cream (and the rest of my sweet potato fries from earlier) were in my belly and I was feeling fine.

In all, I learned a lot today. Like, sometimes you just have to resign yourself from the outside world and not feel bad about it. And also, don't mix chemicals in an enclosed space.

Good night!

The Grind

Last week, I thought leaving my office job would set me free.

Once I quit, I thought, I'd finally truly be able to pursue the things most important to me. I had visions of spending all my free time writing. My previously latent creativity suddenly liberated, short stories and witty blog posts would pour forth in excess. I'd devour book upon book, and exercise for an hour a day, at least! I'd volunteer with schoolchildren or the elderly, or get an internship with a local publication. I'd have time to discover my true calling in life, at last! The only thing holding me back was that pesky nine to five.

Or so I thought.

As it turns out, actually doing the things most important to me is just as hard as ever. Today is my day off, and I have it all to myself. Today, I can to anything I want! Yet when I woke up this morning I laid paralyzed in bed, hardly able to decide among going to the gym, writing something, or getting groceries. When I found out that I don't have to work my new job until noon on Monday, I didn't immediately think of all the things I could accomplish that morning. Instead, I day-dreamed about sleeping in and leisurely sipping coffee until 11:30.

It may strike some as strange that I never really bought into the idea that you actually have to work toward what you want. I always thought it was enough that I displayed a slight penchant for the “language arts” and had a vague idea of doing good in the world. Opportunity was bound to come knocking based on that...right?

It took me way too long to realize that, just like anyone else in the history of the world who's ever accomplished anything, ever, I'm going to have to work for it.

Farewell, Cushy Office Job. Hello, Personal Crisis.

I'm sitting in a cubicle. It's my last full day of work at a job I've hated since last February, when I started. I gave my two weeks notice on Halloween, and tomorrow I'll begin my part time job at a bread bakery, where I'll make almost four dollars less per hour. I have a college degree, and nearly $17,000 in student loans.

It's hard to explain the decision to quit, even to myself. If someone asked me to make a list of reasons why I hate it here, it might look something like this:

1. I have to talk to inarticulate, depressing people on the phone all day.
2. My commute is longer than I'd like.
3. The grounds and office are smelly, dirty and unsightly.
4. I get bored and restless, and end up staring at the internet for too long.

In summary, it's not that bad. I'm treated very well by my boss, and the money is good. I never have to work more than forty hours a week. I get to write emails, look at Facebook, and work on my blog, all while getting paid. If I continued working here, I could probably have my loans paid off in about three years. It's difficult to justify my choice to quit and work in a bakery for barely above minimum wage, with people who were born in the 1990s. Still, I'm leaving.

I'm leaving because it's not the job that's the problem. The problem is me.

Or at least that's the current conclusion I've come to. I wont go into too much boring personal detail. Let's just say that I'm embarking on an experiment of will and dedication, two concepts with which I have minimal experience.

I'm leaving this post intentionally vague, to give myself room to develop a theme that's still in the works. Wish me luck. You'll be hearing from me soon.

Continued Musings

Since I've been back home from school, I've spent most of my time hanging out with people who I've known for a good portion of a decade, or longer. This is a positive thing.

But it is also a thing that makes me ponder. I was in another city, part of a different crowd, for four years. Now, with the passage of time and acquisition of experience, I look at my old relationships in a new light.

Mainly, observing the behavior of and my relationship to my dear old friends has made me realize how integral a role it all played in my development as a person. And this is no surprise.

But often over the past year I've found myself looking around at my friends and companions and wondering aloud: "Who else on Earth behaves this way?"

For instance, in my closest group of friends it is totally acceptable, even expected, to consistently break plans with one another. And by "consistently," I mean always.

Get out of work early to meet up and go to that show? The one we've been talking about all week? Think again. Another friend is making dinner, and there's a party afterward.

Still want to meet up and play some tennis tonight? Don't feel like it anymore? No problem. We're going to happy hour, anyway.

And so on.

But this sort of thing isn't a problem for me. Not anymore, anyway. If anything, it's left me open to the idea that good things can happen in unexpected places. More so, it's helped me develop a deep reserve of patience for the prevailing fickleness of the world. And that is what I call looking on the bright side.

This is just one example. Most of what I feel when I look around me, at the places I've lived and the people I know, I can't accurately put into words. Sometimes I become so overwhelmed with the idea that I'm part of such a unique, specific little niche in time and space that I don't know what to do with myself.

So I guess that's when I blog about it.

Fond Memories

There was a year long period in middle school when my friends beat the shit out of me on an almost daily basis.

I wasn't the only one who suffered these beatings. We all had a tendency to take out our strange, suppressed, pubescent aggressions on one another. But sometimes I think I bore the brunt of it.

Most days after school, a large clan of us would trample down the street to my parents house, where an overwhelming lack of parental supervision left us free to run rampant. Here, our shallow seventh grade depths of lip gloss and ponytails gave way abruptly to an intense and terrifying savagery.

I can't pinpoint the exact origin of these group beatings; I don't remember how or why it all started. Instead, my memory is infiltrated with short, dreamlike clips of specific instances, like the feeling of suddenly coming to after having blacked out from drinking.

I remember the smallest one, sitting on my chest, gulping triumphantly from a two-liter bottle of Dr. Pepper, my favorite brand of pop. Two others had been assigned the task of wrangling my squirming, ungainly legs until I had been effectively pinned down to my own kitchen floor.

(In time, we had developed a highly efficient strategy for pinning down our victims. You had to start with the legs. Left unbound, they would thrash desperately and violently, and were liable to do any amount of damage necessary to become freed.)

Another afternoon, sunny and early fall, two of us waited for my sister to come pick us up after school and take us to the mall. In the time it took her to get there, one of my best friends pushed me backwards off a bench and whipped me repeatedly across the face with the straps of a backpack. I was left with a red, rashy mark across my face that looked like spaghetti sauce.

I don't want to play the victim. I know for a fact that time in the schoolyard I reciprocated in the same violent gist. And I remember the day I left a hand-print shaped bruise on another friends arm. There were plenty of times when I played the assailant, and not the assailed.

It's the sort of erratic behavior that could easily be attributed to an extreme excess of energy. Untapped aggression. Unchecked insecurities. As with everything, there had to be more to it than what appeared on the surface, and sometimes I still wonder if there was something about me, specifically, that caused my friends to act out like that.

I guess I'll never know, and it doesn't really matter now anyway. I think of it as the gnarly, twisted core of our friendship, and it's a good reminder to judge how far we've really come.

mandatory make-over

I used to be on the tee-vee. This was an email I got from my boss around the time I started.

"I was talking with Jeff and we'd like to get you in the studio to take some photos for the website to accompany your bio, but first we need you to go to John Six salon and Merle Norman. Just seeing if you've made arrangements to do so yet because we really can't photograph you until you do that."

Merle Norman was the make up studio where we on-air folk were given free consultations and face paint.

The email was sent as my non-confrontational boss sat directly across from me.

Good Morning

Up until now, I can remember experiencing only two celebrity related dreams. The first one featured a semi-sexual situation with Will Arnett and occurred when I was taking in an inordinate amount of Arrested Development. The second was a bit more involved and entailed Luke Wilson operating on me in a local grocery store after my sister and I made a pact to shoot ourselves in the head.

Last night I drifted into an easy sleep that led me down an unusual path. I awoke refreshed and feeling particularly well and immediately headed out to my little vegetable garden. Standing in the morning sunshine snapping fuzzy green beans from the vine, a series of dreamy snapshots manifested a larger picture in my mind. A nautical themed restaurant, shaped like a boat. Hairless chests on shirtless men. Velvet-cushioned benches. Blinding, grinning white teeth.

I came inside and sat on the edge of my bed, musing and munching my harvest, and there it came to me. A love triangle. Matt Damon. Ben Afleck. And Me.

(I'll Have Myself a) Big Mac Attack

I find myself sitting at Rosie O'Gradys in downtown Ferndale, somewhere I have no desire to be but where, by a series of unfortunate events, Violet has ended up working as a waitress. My plan was to come here and film her undertaking of a "detox" program in which she eats nothing and drinks only a sad mixture of water, maple syrup, powdered cayenne and lemon juice. I thought this would be a good idea when yesterday I picked her up mid-day from our friend Amelia's and she ambled out clutching a suspicious looking grocery bag full of said ingredients. My pseudo-boyfriend Bryan and I looked on with amusement as, in typical Violet fashion, she hastily assembled the beverage, failing not to loudly smack the excess syrup from her finger tips, Susie-Q style (according to her, a main “perk” of the system).

Electronics in tow and ready to take action, I arrive at the restaurant. I sit down and ask Violet how the diet's going. “It's not,” she replies. Less than 24 hours into the program she caved, having been tormented all last night by a sole pastry sitting on the counter at work. The culprit took the form of an apple torte, but she “only ate the insides, so that's not that bad, right?” Immediately after her confession a co-worker appears to accuse her of recently stealing half an order of spinach dip. Five minutes later a large quesadilla arrives at our table and we are swarmed by a posse of hungry waitresses who greedily devour the shoddy fare and trade tales of experience with the Master Cleanse. “I'll pay for that,” Violet assures me, mid-chew.

Despite her break with the system I did end up filming Violet concocting the tonic one last time, complete with unsolicited onscreen input from her waitress friends. Unfortunately, the video is a lengthy and largely uninteresting three minutes. Eventually I do plan on honing my video-editing skills; until then I believe the above image of a confused looking Violet offering her viewers a sampling of the cleanse should suffice in fulfilling your visual needs.

A Typical Exchange

My Life as an Amateur Sportsman (Pt.1)

*Disclaimer:*

Violet took it upon herself to post this rough draft of mine.

Violet and I were hitting around some balls last night. This generally entails us rummaging around her parent's oddly clean yet stinky garage for a can of soggy, deflated tennis balls and arguing over who gets the child-size racket from 1974, then making the walk to the court about a half block over. I serve the ball over the net to her, she volleys it back to me and I manically flail my long limbs trying to hit it back. If I do hit it, it most likely ends up too far back in the corner for her to realistically return the volley. If not, I end up scampering around my side of the court, my body ever-weakening with giggles, erratically weilding my racket to try and capture the fugitive ball.

We usually alternate between cruelly berating each other for our complete lack of athleticism and laughing uncontrollably. While I have lanky, uncontrollable spaghetti-like limbs, Violet's movements are more akin to a drunken penguin. She baby-steps around the court, arms outstretched, and when it comes her turn to serve, in place of doing anything like what we were taught in gym class, she hurls the ball in front of her like an infant might hurl it's rattle, and swings her racket as if at random.

Even though we're not doing anything remotely close to what most would refer to as "tennis," I savor these little romps about the court. I like to entertain notions that I'll be playing tennis for a long time to come; I can only hope my future mates, as Violet is, will be as wily and incompetent as myself.

Pole Addiction

Please note the fitness center that recently appeared at the end of my street. I took this picture from my hiding spot behind a bush.

Upon further inspection, I found the studio to be dark and empty. This "sign" appears on both the door and window. I say drug cover.

Conversations in Retail: First Installment

Four days a week I am tasked with the rather unglamorous duty of spending nine hours answering phones at a car dealership for low-income citizens. Tedious conversations ensue. I am hoping to post regularly with detailed accounts of the tedious-ist.

Scene: Paula is sitting in her cubicle, eating a cup of yogurt and looking at Facebook. The office is quiet except for the sound of typing and a buzz of fluorescent lights. Large window panes reveal a gray sky and an expansive lot of haggard looking vehicles. The phone rings. Paula puts down her spoon and picks up the receiver.

Paula F.(with mild enthusiasm): Thank you for calling ---Auto Sales. This is Paula, how can I help you?

Fast talking customer (with indistinct accent): Paula I am looking at the website and I am seeing a 1995 T-t-t-Toyota Camry. Is this true?

PF: Let me see...I have a 19-

FTC: Is, is the 1995 Camry. It is 1995. What are you trying to say?

PF: If you're looking for the 1995 Camry, it's sold. We have a 19-

FTC: I am seeing the 1995, this is what I'm looking for. Do you still have it? It is sold?

PF (with increasing irritation): If you'd give me a chance to speak, I'd tell you that we no longer have the 1995. We have a 1990 Toyota Camry.

FTC: Oh, oh, oh. OK. Yes and that is there. Ok so we will come. And thank you Paula, so you have a 1990. Ok, ok. Thank you, bye. We will be there.

PF (concealing laughter): Ok? Bye.

Paula hangs up the receiver and resumes staring at the computer screen. 15 seconds pass, the phone rings again. She picks up the receiver.

PF (again with enthusiasm): Thank you for calling ---Auto Sales, this is Paula. How can I help you?

FTC (panicked): Uh, uh, uh yes Paula. How do you get there? 75, 75. And exact address? We need to get there. And we need to come. The 1990 Camry.

PF: Ok, we're at 714 W. Potter.

FTC: 783 Toppert? T-O-P-P? We will GPS?

PF (frustrated): No, 714 W. Potter. P-O-T-T-E-R.

FTC: Ok, ok. 815 E. Potts Ave. Uh, uh, ok.

PF: 7.1.4. W. P. - O. - T. - T. - E. - R.

FTC: Ok, ok, ok. Ok, ok. Yes we will come. And there are two or three Camrys that we will be seeing?

PF: No, there is only one Camry. The 1990 Camry.

FTC: Oh, ok. And this is Paula? Thank you Paula, we will see you soon.

The line goes dead. Paula hangs up the receiver and clicks over to Gmail on her computer. 20 seconds pass, the phone rings. Paula picks up the receiver.

PF (with manic enthusiasm): Thank you for calling ---Auto Sales, this is Paula. How can I help you?

Scene.

Youth of Today

I was cruising on the service drive Friday on my way home from work when I noticed a tiny figure poised on the curb. The small child sat calmly reading a book and I, horrified, watched as cars barreled past the pair of pale, skinny legs that jutted into the road. Windows down and music up, I whooshed past and thought to myself "Jesus. Someone should really do something about that kid." A half mile later I was looping back around.

Due to a parking miscalculation, I ended up a block down from the boy and as I approached him I felt an inexplicable nervous anticipation. There he sat, still seemingly absorbed in his reading, completely oblivious to the approaching stranger. Was I overstepping my boundary? I paused a few yards away from his perch hoping that he might sense my presence, as to eliminate the awkwardness I felt about my imposition. No such luck, so I chose my moment to speak.

"Hey, I'm Paula...what's your name?" is all I could think to say. My experience with children is extremely limited.

To my surprise, the child didn't seem the least bit jolted by my sudden appearance. He simply looked up from his book, proclaimed "A.J.," and promptly hopped up to get a closer look at me.

I felt myself draw back as I wasn't expecting such unquestioning amiability (and his close proximity brought to my attention his general lack of cleanliness), but then I remembered my purpose and said, "Well, A.J., I noticed you sitting here on the curb when I drove by and was worried about you. Did you know you could get hit by a car by sitting this close to the street?"

A.J. stared up at me unblinkingly. Not the slightest twitch on his freckled face suggested the least bit of comprehension. Instead he held up his book for me to see; it was Captain Underpants. I hesitantly took the text from his sticky child-hands and gave it a once-over. "Heh heh. Looks funny. Yeah, reading is cool, A.J.! Good for you!" I said, pleased at the opportunity to impress my values on todays youth.

"I can read," he replied, and proceeded to attempt proof of this by spouting off several lines of jibberish.

My brows furrowed, I gave a "Hmm," feeling concern for his lack of English. "Uh, exactly how old are you?" I asked.

"Six," he replied, distracting me from the language issue as he began stroking my feet. "I love your shoes."

At this point I was getting anxious. I had big plans that night and had no intention of screwing them up because of some weird little kid I met on the side of the road. I tried reiterating my point about playing in traffic a few more times, including an attempt at making him pinky swear that he'd never do it again. We'd been standing on the small strip of grass between the sidewalk and road up until this point, and I finally managed to get him onto the sidewalk. He wanted me to stay and read with him when I said I had to leave.

"OK, but see you tomorrow, right?" he eyed me expectantly.

"Uh, yeah, sure A.J. Tomorrow," I replied, hoping to alleviate his clinginess with steadfast compliance. "And remember, no more playing by the road." I waved goodbye and turned to leave.

He plopped down on the sidewalk and waved back. As I walked away I could feel his eyes on me all the way down the block, so I looked back to wave again. He was sprawled bizarrely on the cement, limbs askew and red-head propped up by a zigzagged neck.

"See you tomorrow, Paula!" he called. "I love you!"

Those words hit hard. Images began flashing through my head: shots of his blackened feet, his waxy ears, his big, brown trusting eyes. The sad, shabby house in front of which he sat, screen door open to reveal only darkness inside. A sole pink plastic Easter egg that lay the porch.

Where were this kid's parents? How could anyone leave such a small helpless thing out by the freeway with no supervision? It physically pained me to imagine poor little A.J.'s potentially loveless home life. What if no one ever told this odd little child that he was loved?

I don't know if it was the right thing to do, but I had to say it. "I love you too, A.J.! See you tomorrow..."

He looked pleased, and finally turned his attention back to Captain Underpants. As I drove away, I watched the tiny figure in my rear-view mirror recede into the distance.

Wednesday Night Revelation

It takes me a while to digest things sometimes. Passages I read in high school are just now taking a conscious shape within me, and I'm still soaking up lessons my dad taught me long ago. That's why I needed to wait a few days before I wrote anything about my experience seeing tUnE-YarDs Wednesday night at the Pike Room. What was intensely reverberating in my heart forty-eight hours ago has now softened to gentle waves; I'm ready to verbalize.

Though the music was tantalizing, it was something more that engulfed me so entirely. A Picasso-like image of Merrill Garbus floated before me like a vision the whole drive home; I saw her strikingly pansophical blue eyes amidst a billow of feathery fuchsia and I knew a shift in my world had taken place. I can't pinpoint exactly what it was that struck me so hard, but I feel stronger and surer because of it.

Last night I walked through my neighborhood just before twilight and felt a deep calm. The air and I were still. The lilacs were in bloom. I felt neither rushed to get where I was headed, nor distress at leaving where I'd been.

There is an importance in being both greatly affected by the world and allowing yourself to remain impervious. I'm just learning that, and a lot of other things.

Sitting Hens Do Not Lie in Green Grass

I abhor triteness and banality, especially those phrases so often used that they almost seem to lack meaning altogether. If there's one cliche I can get behind, though, it's this: "Treat others the way you'd like to be treated."

I'm sure it seems pedantic to be writing a blog post about something Jesus said like a hundred years ago, but I just couldn't allow myself to let my worthy adversary go unopposed. We have essential differences, and I'm always right. Like that argument we got into when we worked at the bagel place together in high school: she said the boss would prefer sloppy work done as quickly as possible, I said he would rather have it done right. Guess who won that one?

Anyway, I'll be the first to admit it: there are a LOT of people in this world. Probably at least a million. So what do you think would happen if everyone was allowed to run rampant doing whatever they pleased?

Most likely it would be a lot like living with a certain friend of mine. Make-up stains and dirty tissues polluting all the counters. Globs of sour cream and fish scales trailing across the kitchen floors. Everyone would be eating out of garbage cans and interrupting each other. Life would be chaos! Nothing would ever get done!

It just wouldn't make any sense.

I've personally discovered that we're all born with a responsibility to not get in each others way as much as possible. In other words, we must get in each others way as little as possible. It may not be easy, it may not be fun, but it's right. Statistics say that if at least 50% of people acted with little or no disregard for 100% of people, 75% of all people would be miserable! And that's not fair.

So the next time you're out in public having a quiet conversation with a friend and some out of control stranger bursts in with an undue interruption, just look up at them with a blank smile on your face while your partner grudgingly agrees to comply with them. Consider it your duty to humanity.

"Violet, let's procreate"

I was in the bathroom this morning when I heard my fine roommate and dear friend, Mike, walk into the living room. My new career has kept me so busy the past few days that I haven't had the chance to see him very much, so I stopped what I was doing and went out to talk to him.

He was sitting at the corner of the couch (his usual resting place) wrapped in a blanket looking oh-so-cute and sleepy.

"I feel like I never see you anymore," I said with a frown.

"Come here," he said, lifting the blankets slightly and gesturing to himself. "Get in here with me."

I stood for a few moments, debating, before finally nodding and sitting on his lap. He wrapped his blanket-winged arms around me and said:

"I'm naked."

First Thoughts:

After over four years apart, my best friend and I are back together again...living in the same house, no less. As pleased as I am with my new situation, I can't say it came about without a certain amount of internal conflict. For whatever reason, I've always subscribed to the notion that personal growth comes as a result of changing ones geographic location. After returning home from college last summer, a long winter ensued of alternately resigning myself to a life sentence in metro-Detroit and designing panicked and ill-thought out plans to escape (including farm work in Hawaii, teaching English in the Philippines, and most recently, performing housekeeping duties on a ranch in rural Montana). But over the past few months, a revelation has been percolating in my bloodstream: true growth can only really ever come from within.

That doesn't mean I don't recognize that being in a new location can be truly inspiring; traveling is its own sort of high, and I plan to see as much of the world as I can. I don't doubt the importance of experiencing new cultures and meeting different kinds of people. To be sure, these things all contribute to a full and rich life. What I'm saying is I don't want to feel limited by my location, like I'm jipping myself. And since I've been back, I've experienced a Detroit I never knew was here. I can't think of the last time there was a dull moment.

The plan for this blog is for me and Big V to spend as much time as we possibly can doing what we love to do, seeking inspiration from our surroundings and the people we encounter along the way. Stay tuned to see where it goes from here.

Customary First Post

I contemplated a post title for several minutes (anticipating my co-writer's scrutiny of each potential choice) before settling on one that has kicked off so many of my past blogging ventures.

The idea to collaborate came to me on a walk home in sub-zero temperatures yesterday evening (April 19- Pure Michigan, baby). I was returning to a genius roommate/best friend with no particular creative outlet, while thinking selfishly about how for the past three weeks I haven't been doing anything I love.

Reading and writing are our passions and we're quite good at them. Paula achieved a perfect score in the reading comprehension section of ACT in 2005 and I managed the same on the essay portion. So, obviously, our talents are indisputable.

After mildly successful stints blogging individually last summer (for paula, finding the humor in what were once life-ending dramatics and, for me, deeply offending a set of financially supportive parents), we've decided (or been forced) to finally combine our talents in Detroit and start musing about the lives we lead, because ultimately, writing about whatever one pleases is more fun than looking for paid positions in which one will be told what to write about (at least in my opinion). It's my hope that reflecting on some of my life's more humorous moments and having others find joy in reading about them will somehow give me a feeling of fulfillment.


This blog won't be devoted to a single topic; neither of us has the inertia or attention span for that. Instead, we will deviate from blog code and explore the various things that interest, inspire and confound us. We will allow our location to serve as the lone thread linking these anecdotes.

Happy reading.