The Case for "Work"

As many of you may know, I hold a 4 year college degree in history.  Now, I have mentioned many times that it is "useless", which is not entirely fair.  I could be used to obtain a job that requires "any" bachelors degree.  I could become a historical research assistant, I suppose.  But as far as specialized professions, a BA of History usually requires another degree to make it truly useful.  That said, since graduating, I have set out to (apparently) move as far away from college-required professions as I can.  I have clerked, sliced and slung sandwiches in a deli, served $2.00 beers to some of the cheapest, rudest old men you will ever meet, shoveled more snow than your average person has in a lifetime, roasted 30 hours a week of a perfectly good 24 year-old summer in a grill shack, and then there's the grass.  I have cut so, so much grass.

People often ask me when I will get a job that uses my degree.  The answer is (probably) never.  See, the human being is supposed to be made of Mind, Body, and Soul, right?  If you're lucky enough to have found a profession where you use your soul, this post is pointless to read because you have found the best job in the world, are following your passion, and are probably happier than most can imagine.

 However, the majority of human beings in the workforce that I know are working jobs that use their minds.  How lucky for them that they have minds sharp enough to land these positions.  Many rearrange schedules, participate in meetings, boot up their computer every morning and check the emails that will determine the course of their next several hours, days, or weeks.  Some teach others, using their minds to plan lessons, activities, and classes full of information that will inspire others to use their minds.

I would never knock any of these jobs.  However, this post is not about people who use their minds for work.  This is about the value of jobs in which the Body is used (no, this is not a blog about the merits of prostitution).  

Mike Rowe, of Ford truck commercial fame as well as the show "Dirty Jobs", has long been speaking out on the subject, calling it "Making the Case for Work".  The idea is that those of us who choose jobs that predominantly use our physical skills instead of our mental ones are not necessarily stupid, uneducated, or unambitious.  Rather, we enjoy working hard physically instead of mentally.  I am a 27 year old white, middle class American female.  I have certain ideas ingrained in my mind of what should and should not be expected of me, such as "no one will make me lift something that is 'too heavy'", "no one will make me work more consecutive hours than what is considered 'humane'(8)", and "no one will expect me to put myself in danger for my job."

 Wrong.  In the last nearly-six years since graduating from college, I have been required to lift a push mower solo to heights taller than myself, worked more than a few thirteen-hour days, and been asked to clean a meat slicer with the blade running.  And then there was the tree incident, in which my company saved hundreds of dollars by having three maintenance people remove a fallen tree from a property, using a chainsaw, a wheelbarrow, and our own strength (the pieces were larger than I could fit my arms around).  

Job descriptions?  We have none.  Well, unless you count the paper I was presented with at my current position, which outlines a brief description of maintaining the grounds of the property and is followed with the ominous line of "all other duties assigned".   Two months ago, this included removal of both deceased and live bats from an attic.  I am not kidding. LIVE BATS.

I am consistently asked why I would ever choose this type of work, why I would choose to interrupt my nights with cell phone calls of "it's snowing, can you be here in half an hour?".  The simple reason is that it is, actually, easy.  Physical exhaustion, in my opinion, is far less tiresome than mental exhaustion.  And yes, I know what mental exhaustion is.  Mental exhaustion to me is spending a holiday afternoon with my best friend and her two sisters (I love you guys, I really do, but there's an awful lot of you and you seem to talk all at once).  I would assume a long day of mentally exhausting work would leave one with the same feeling - tired, drained, but happy.

Physical exhaustion just means your body hurts.  This winter, for instance, it meant that I couldn't sit properly because (if anyone has shoveled snow for any period of time, you will know) the "snow shoveling muscle" is my right gluteal.  Last summer, exhaustion was being unable to clench my hands closed because I had held a weedwacker all day, and going to bed knowing there were not enough hours before work the next day to get fully rested.  Other times, exhaustion has been feet so sore that I could barely walk, caused by standing for 8-10 hours straight behind a bar (even in brand new running shoes).  However, when I walk out of my job, my mind is fresh.  My body may be useless for a short period of time, but I reserve all my free time to use my kind for whatever I choose.  I can probably safely say that I reserve about 15 minutes a day outside of my job to thin about my job.  I bet most people who use their minds for work can't say the same.  "Work related stress" doesn't exist for me, unless you count trying to stress to my coworkers the importance of proper hand sanitization and nutritional habits.  So, I am no Mike Rowe, and I doubt I will start working in a fish processing plant or removing old mattresses for a living (did you see that episode? It was disgusting. It made me want to run out and buy a new mattress- however, the side effect of having a Body-using job that you love is also usually having no money).  But I would say I am firmly in the "Making the Case For Work" camp.    We might do the jobs that no one else wants to do, but if more people thought about it in a different light, maybe that wouldn't be the case.

Young Listeners: Don't Want Crazy

I listen to the radio.  A lot.  Particularly the country stations, as they are preset in our trucks at work, but I have also been known to dabble in some pop music every now and then. Who doesn't like variety?

However, I have noticed a disturbing trend in "young people's" music.  What are we teaching preteen girls about life and love?  About relationships and how they should be?  I suppose there are plenty of critics out there who will say "it's just music", but is Taylor Swift just a singer to your average 12 year old girl?  No - she's an idol, a role model, the picture of teenage angst and overcoming heartbreak.  We should not disregard the affect that her message - and those of other artists like her - has on young listeners.

Exhibit A:  Taylor Swift's song "The way I loved you" from her album Fearless.  The song opens with Swift singing about a nice, sensible boy who opens doors for her, relates well to her parents, and makes her feel comfortable.  All good qualities, right?  You would think so, until the song continues and the listener realizes that young Taylor simply doesn't feel for this wonderful boy the way she did for her ex.  She sings that she misses "screaming and fighting and kissing in the rain", and that she was "cursing your name" at 2:00 am.  Swift was "so in love that she acted insane" and that it was a "roller coaster kind of rush". 

Hmm.  Sounds like an emotionally abusive relationship to me.  Clearly the previous beau kept her guessing, worrying, and angry/angsty all the time.  But, she idealizes this type of relationship, implying that the nice boy she has met just doesn't make her feel "anything at all".  In short, this song would have young listeners believe that it's not real love unless the other person drives you to the edge of your sanity.  Excellent, just what a bunch of hormonal teenage girls need to hear.  Nice guys, get ready to finish dead last. Girls, prepare yourselves for years of disappointment.

Exhibit B: Let's talk about boys. Particularly young, white boys who want the world to think they're hardened, tough adults. Enter Eminem, the savior of high school boys who feel silly listening to Taylor Swift but still need a certain amount of angst and pain in their music.  

Several years ago, Mr. Mathers (Eminem's real name is Marshall) released a song entitled Love the way you lie, featuring Rihanna, who at the time was barely more than a teenager herself. The song details an abusive relationship, but includes lines that glorify the deep, intense "love" that the two people feel for one another. The line "And right now there's a steel knife in my windpipe, I can't breathe but I still fight while I can fight, As long as the wrong feels right it's like I'm in flight" implies that while the relationship is physicall and emotionally painful, the "wrong" still feels right. Excellent, again. Let's teach teenagers that it's alright to be with someone who harms you, so long as it "feels" like love. Later, he threatens to tie her to the bed ad set the house on fire, while Rihanna sings about how she likes the way it hurts. Even more interesting is tha Rihanna, herself, was in the throes of an abusive relationship with singer Chris Brown at the time. And yet still recorded those lyrics.

Exhibit C: My most recent discovery and the inspiration behind this post. Hunter Hayes, for those of you that don't know, is a 20-something, blonde haired, piano playing country crooner, complete with teenage, cute-as-a-button looks that drive the 13 year old girls, well, crazy. His latest single, "I want crazy", is meant to make teenage females fantasize about going crazy with Hunter. Much like Swift's song, Mr. Hayes claims that "it ain't right if you ain't lost your mind", and sings about how he doesnt want "good", he wants "crazy".

"I want can't sleep, can't breathe without your love", sings Hunter. "Without you, baby, is a waste of time." That doesn't sound like love to me. That sounds like a restraining order. And I'm not sure any of it is proper english.

I don't intend to rip apart popular music. And I would hate to shatter the squeaky clean image of bouncing blondes like Taylor and Hunter. And of course, none of us can deny that Rihanna became America's sweetheart after she came clean to the world about Chris Brown's abuse (and especially after she threw Katy Perry a sweet bachelorette party). However, isn't high school hard enough without teenager's favorite musicians pumping them full of the idea that love and relationships should be dramatic, angry, and obsessive?

Everything I Like To Do, I Learned From My Uncle

This past weekend, my sister and I went "camping".  I have now been camping twice with her, and I think I can safely say that the next time we go, it will have to be nearly perfect, because we have already dealt with everything that could possibly go wrong.  The first time, years ago, we awoke to a river running through our campsite (under our tent) because of COURSE the only available site left in a campground in Wells, Maine in August is situated on the low part of an old creek bed.  Grabbing your wet tent and hauling ass out of a campground at 4:00 am, beer cans and sleeping bags flying?  A priceless memory.

This time, we arrived at our campsite in near darkness, set up the tent at dusk, purchased damp firewood that would not ignite and discovered the campground had no running water.  However, my sister and I sitting miserably in the woods is not the subject of this blog post.

The point is, I keep doing these things.  This summer alone I have slept outside at a family reunion in the pouring rain and lead four innocent and unsuspecting friends down the Saco river (camping included) in August, blazing the trail with my "extensive" nature knowledge and the fact that I had canoed the river once before (when I was eleven).   I also have a newly-hatched plan to purchase a tow-behind camper and live in it (possibly year round).  My sense of adventure seems to know no bounds, and I finally figured out who to blame.

My eldest uncle, Steve, has been dragging anyone who is willing (or anyone young enough to be unable to protest) on "adventures" (he's a registered Maine guide, and his business card once said something like "Steve's Scenic Safaries to Exotic Places") for longer than I have been alive.  Some of our highlights included a 3 day, 2 night canoe trip with several family members and friends down the Moose River (I think I was about ten) and a "day" hike up Mt. Katahdin.  My uncle also taught me how to drive, gave me my first landscaping job, and likely put me on my first pair of skis.

Yes, the above paragraph sounds idyllic, doesn't it?

It gets better when you hear that we put our boats in that river at about 6 pm in the wilderness of Northern Maine and paddled in the pitch blackness across a lake on the canoe trip.  I remember crying, being completely convinced that we would never survive the adventure - and it was just half an hour into the weekend. 

We hiked Katahdin beginning at noon, thinking a nice easy day hike of one of the highest peaks in the Northeast would be no sweat.  My uncle brought a bag of M&Ms for sustenance, and no flashlight.  More tears ensued when we were still hiking at 9 pm.  Neither myself, my aunt Leslie, or her friend who accompanied us were terribly impressed with Steve's planning skills.  I think by then I must have been twelve or so, at least enough time had passed between trips that I had forgotten my vow to "never go anywhere with Uncle Steve again".

When Steve hired me to work for him, I was fourteen years old and the job required being able to operate a motorized vehicle.  He started me out on an ancient Gravely lawn tractor, which was replaced by a three-wheeled atv with a trailer (for hand-picking rocks from a large field), which I promptly used to run over my own foot.  

With such a great track record, we moved on to bigger and better things, and Steve taught me and my best friend, Elizabeth, how to drive his Jeep, which was at least 40 years old.  No one really believes me when I tell them that I learned how to drive on a 4 speed Willys Jeep, and nobody in my 9th grade class believed either of us when we told them we'd been driving all over the back roads of the Sunday River valley, unlicensed, in a dump truck (Sorry, Steve, if you didn't exactly know about that one).

I credit my uncle with teaching me that the kind of work that I would grow to love would never pay me much.  My duties as his employee included staining sheds, mowing lawns, endlessly weeding flower beds, and then there was that damn field with all of those rocks.  All for $5.00 an hour.  I was, at the time, a bargain.  Now I don't even get out of bed for less than $10.00 an hour... still, I think, a bargain.

Steve's personality always leads to interesting encounters with people all over the world.  You can most certainly stop in any town in any New England state and find someone who knows Steve Wight.  I'm sure you've heard of the "6 degrees of Kevin Bacon"... there are only 3 degrees of uncle Steve.  There's "sure, I know Steve!", "I've heard of Steve", and "let me tell you about what happened the one time your uncle convinced me that we should go _______".

I guess it would be safe to say that most of the things I enjoy doing at the age of 27 are things Steve taught me.  I still love Jeeps and trucks, I mow lawns for a living, and I escape to nature as often as I can with anyone who will agree to come with me.  I am also, as everyone in my family will attest to, the loudest voice in every social situation, and usually the center of attention (unless Steve happens to be there).

My uncle Steve is 69 years old today.  He has managed to be the family patriarch for 54 years, married a very patient woman, owned and operated a successful hospitality business for many years, is an outspoken and (generally) respected member of my hometown community, has three children, five grandchilden and several granddogs. 

And one neice who can't thank him enough.

The Tiny Life

As some of my "followers" (gosh, that sounds pretentious) on facebook may know, I moved exactly one month ago.  I have previously blogged about living alone, and I still do, but I moved into the apartment on the 2nd floor of my building.  Hooray, less stairs!

The entire living space (minus the bathroom, because I don't count bathrooms as a place you can "live") is 180 square feet.  For those of you, like myself, with no concept of space, that's 12x15 feet.  About the size of your average dorm room.

I was watching HGTV last week and saw a new show about apartment hunting.  The agent was referring to small, one room apartments as "bachelors" instead of "studios", so that is what I am calling my place.  My bachelor sized apartment.  See what I did there?  I turned something cramped and inconvenient into something extremely trendy.  Thank you, Home and Garden Television.

This photo does not do justice to how small the apartment really is, but please imagine that this is about half of the one room.  The kitchen area is about 6x12 feet.  Countertops?  What you see is what there is.  Also, I am sure you've noticed that the refrigerator looks un-level.  That's because it is.  The whole place is.

Perhaps the most interesting part about the apartment is the bed.  At first look, it would appear to the naked eye that I have no bed.  Do not be fooled, as the large doors that line one side of the room contain a....

MURPHY BED!

Oh yes, they do exist outside of sitcoms about broke waitresses struggling with two jobs, trying to get by and maintain their independent lifestyle...oh, oh God.

But back to the bed.  I don't understand how it works exactly.  There are lots of hinges, springs and dangerous looking metal parts.  By pulling on the foot board, the whole thing folds out (with a rather satisfying bang) and drops down, sheets, pillows, stuffed animals and all.  It takes up the entire room.  There is barely enough space to walk around when the bed is folded out, so it has to be packed away every morning.  There is also a "Murphy" table and benches that fold out of another cabinet in the wall.  Yes, I live inside a pop-up book.

The best part about moving into this minuscule space is that I have absolutely no desire to go shopping.  I can't, I don't have an inch of space to put anything else.  The 2nd best part is that I don't ever, ever have to host another house guest - because unless we are going to keep the bed folded up and cover the floor in air mattresses, there is absolutely no space to add another person.  Which is exactly how I like it.

The downsides, I suppose, would be that I certainly cannot entertain (I don't have a functional table, and the bookcase is actually in front of the folding one), and that I had to get rid of almost half of my belongings.  That includes:

- a dresser I swiped from my college apartment (it was there when I moved in!) and have painted 3 different times to match different apartments over the last 4 years,
- 4 bar stools that I absolutely loved (the old place had a bar),
- a shoe rack (and, subsequently, about half of my pairs of shoes, since I no longer had a place for them)
- a reasonably sized television (see photo.  I built the shelf that the TV is on, and the screen is probably about 18".  If the room was any bigger, I wouldn't be able to see the picture),
- my box spring (the ol' Murph only takes a mattress on top of the cracked plywood and spring base),
- piles, piles, and more piles of junk I always thought I'd need again some day.  Oh yes, this means that the red Tu-Tu left over from a beer fairy Halloween costume 3 years ago went to the Salvation Army, along with old quilt fabric, many rolls of wrapping paper, t-shirts I haven't worn in 5 years, and about 1/4 of my famous baseball cap collection. 

I'm sure I will thank myself for this one day.

This tiny living thing has started to teach me a lot.  For instance, you can't just leave your clean laundry in the basket until it's time to do more laundry and then just dump the clean on your bed...if you don't have a bed.  And if you allow mail, change, shoes or dishes to pile up, it is immediately noticeable.  I have to be really tidy in this space, or it gets out of hand VERY quickly. 

I can't buy too many groceries.  BJ's Wholesale Club?  Forget it.  If I purchase more than one box of pasta at a time, I have to rearrange the entire cupboard to make space. 

Getting drunk in this apartment is actually really dangerous.  Any clumsy or wide turns, and things are falling off shelves and the wall.  When the bed is folded out, the doors nearly block the hallway to the point that I can barely get by, so if I am even the least bit out of sorts, I crash into it.  I'm pretty sure the woman below me already hates me.

SO.  Why do this, you ask?  Why mortgage the space upstairs (which was no huge digs either, I should add.  The only difference was one small room, but it felt like a lot more) for living in a glorified walk-in closet? 

Besides the price, which is exactly HALF of what I was paying for rent upstairs (and that was a total steal), I have convinced myself that this is all I need.  The only bill that is not included is my electric, which I paid last week at the whopping price of $16.43.  Of course it's cheap, the whole place has only two light switches.  And I can simplify my life by necessity (what 26 year old needs 4 bar stools?), which is very handy for someone who has just a touch of "hoarding" in their blood.

Also, as noble and trendy as I am trying to make this "Bachelor" apartment thing seem, I would be deceiving you of my real motives if I did not point out that my rent is now just slightly less than my student loan payment...

Beer and Blood

I passed my hunter's safety course last weekend.  In New York, as in many states, you must pass a 9-11 hour course in order to purchase a hunting license of any kind.  Most future hunters, it seems, take the class when they are eleven so that they may begin shooting animals the minute they turn twelve - if they are blessed enough to be born during any of the hunting seasons. 

My sister, as I may have previously mentioned in this blog, is a vegan.  She's a "double-whammy" vegan, at that: she doesn't eat meat because she doesn't like the taste, and she also doesn't use any animal products because she has love for the furry and the feathered.  She isn't burning down leather stores or throwing blood on people wearing fur coats, but I'd say it's possible that's just because she's too busy. 

When my sister heard I was going to be learning to hunt and getting a license, her first reaction was to say (via a text message, which is really irrelevant information because I know my sister well enough to transpose her voice, tone, and facial expressions into every type of media, including text):

"WHAT boy is ever going to marry you if you are always covered in beer and BLOOD?"

Oh yes, the age-old question.  WHAT member of the opposity sex will EVER marry someone like me?  Does the single 20-something change who they are, what they are interested in, their personal style and lifestyle in order to hook a man?  Or do I sit calmy, continuing with the interests and activities that I enjoy, waiting eternally for a boy to drop from heaven (or at least the back hills of central New York) who will "love me for who I am"?

The most important thing to understand in this post:  I am not single because I have had no offers.  I am not single because every guy breaks up with me.  I am not desperate for love, marriage, or someone to share my living space with who will leave dishes in the sink, mud on the rug and pee splashes on the toilet seat (but never wash a plate, pick up the vacuum, or break out the lysol). 

I am single for one very simple reason.  I haven't found what I want yet.  So, in order to put to ease the inquiring minds of my friends and immediate family (the latter of which, I suspect, are the only people who read this), I have compiled a short list of the absolute, steadfast qualities that I require in a potential mate.

1)  Must Love Denim.  A boy must love denim because it is, literally, all that I wear.  I work in jeans (usually with holes and oil spots), lounge in jeans, go out on the town in jeans, and sometimes, after the occasional over-indulgent evening out, sleep in them.  What's not to love?  Do you even realize how many times you can wear jeans before you have to replace them?  All you really need are a few good pairs. 

2) Must Drive a Pickup Truck.  This is really quite self explanatory, I think.  And no, it's a real one.  It's non negotiable.  This is my blog and my life and I can want what I want.

3) Must Have Facial Hair.  Again, not joking here.  I'm 26.  If you don't have a beard, I am going to assume it's because you are incapable of growing a full one.  And that makes you a little boy, not a man, and I'm no longer interested.  Period.

4) Must Honestly Like "Me".  When a guy meets me and says "oh, the thing I like best about you is that you're comfortable going to the bar in jeans and a t-shirt", he better get used to it.  That's not a rare occasion, that's every occasion.  If you think I am going to begin dating you and you're going to see me at a downtown bar, or restaurant, or any place casual in a skirt, heels, or a dress, you're wrong.  It's not part of my wardrobe.  So a guy better either a) not care about clothes, or b) find jeans, tshirts, and baseball caps attractive, cause they aren't going away.

5) Must Tolerate Cats.  I don't have one.  But I fully intend to someday, and not as a replacement for a boyfriend/husband.  Yup, that's right, Future Mate:  We will be having a feline in the home.  Possibly two.  Possibly more.

6)  Must Read.  I know I have thus far described a perfect man as someone with a beard and a pickup truck, but they have to possess SOME intelligence.  I don't care if you read the articles in Outdoor Life or Sports Illustrated from beginning to end, as long as there's interest.  The last guy I dated didn't read for enjoyment.  When I told my mother this, a long pause was followed by the statement:  "Cory reads".  Cory is the vegan sister's boyfriend.  Which brings me to my next point...

7)  Must Love My Family.  Anyone who does not find my family and their friends (read: My mother and her best friend) as hilarious and entertaining as I do is probably either a) unintelligent, or b) humor-less.  Both of which are intolerable.

8)  Must Fish, Ride a Four-Wheeler, Work on Cars, Own a Tractor, Build Houses, Ride Horses and/or Bulls, Kill Animals for Meat/Trophies, and Wear Camo.  Ok, I admit I just threw that in there for my sister's benefit.  I'm not serious.  Any 3 of the above will do. 


To recap, I believe that any "boy" who possesses all of the aforementioned qualities would be happy with a girl who is covered in "beer and blood".  Sure, my requirements might be a little steep, but with all the things I have to do (learn to hunt, shoot a turkey, paint my apartment, bake regularly, patch up my jeans, go out with my friends, and read the 50+ unread novels in my bookcase), I'm sure I can keep myself perfectly busy until he shows up.

Freegan?

I've read a lot of articles, mostly since the start of the recession, that list a hundred different ways to cut back your grocery bill.  I've even read about a movement of people who call themselves "Freegans" (not to be confused with Vegans, and no insult to my sister here), who never spend money on anything material, including food.  While raiding the dumpsters of upscale restaurants is a little far for me to go (mainly because we don't really have any upscale restaurants around here), I thought I would try something for a week or two.

I'm not spending money on food.  Or drinks, for that matter.  I started on Monday night, after spending $3 on a morning coffee and snack and $6 more at lunch on a mediocre, gas-station turkey sub (which, incidentally, bore a "code" sticker with the code "F" - something I suspiciously took to mean "Friday").  It occurred to me, suddenly, that I had just blown enough cash to pay for 2.5 gallons of gas, which is enough to get me to and from work for 2+ days.  What a waste!

Monday night, I dined on a bar-warmed hot dog from my place of part-time employment and a small plate of macaroni salad, leftover from a party at the bar on Saturday.  When I arrived home, I surveyed my kitchen.  In my cupboards, I found:

- 2 boxes of spaghetti, one multi-colored, one plain
- 1 half of a box of penne
- 2 boxes of generic-brand macaroni and cheese
- 1 box of extremely stale cheerios (sadly, they went in the trash)
- 1 jar of gravy
- 2 boxes of stuffing (one for chicken, one for turkey.  As if there's a difference.)
- 1 jar of pasta sauce
- 1 can of cranberry sauce
- 1 packet of "nacho cheesy pasta mix"
- pancake mix (fully inclusive, just add water)
- taco shells
- powdered milk (I don't drink the real stuff, so I keep it on hand for cooking)
- pumpkin coffee

In the refrigerator and freezer, I found:

- 2 half-full jars of salsa
- 2 half-full bags of shredded cheese
- 1 large potato
- pasta sauce, opened
- maple syrup
- lots of condiments
- tons of butter and margarine.  Probably 3 whole boxes altogether.  All I can say is, wtf?
- 2 pieces of chicken, left by the boy I recently broke up with (thanks, Dan)
- frozen blueberries

Not a bad haul, altogether.  At 10:30 Monday night, I cooked 2 boxes of macaroni and cheese, separated them into four small tupperware containers, and went to bed.

In the morning, I made myself blueberry pancakes and pumpkin coffee, probably a more balanced breakfast than I have had in weeks.  Off to work I went, where my coworker, Jim, provided me with several bites of his breakfast sandwich, as he does regularly.  Totally set until lunchtime, when I heated up some of the macaroni and cheese.  However, after relaying my plan to my boss, he felt bad for me and announced he was bringing me beef stew for lunch the next day.  Score!  The vehicle manager in my department gave me a handful of trailmix as an afternoon snack, too.  Again that night, I ate at the bar.

Today, more pancakes, and delicious beef stew for lunch.  Another coworker brought donuts in to share, so I managed to grab a snack, as well.  Tonight, I made the "nacho cheesy pasta mix", added some penne to stretch it, and grilled and added the Guilt Chicken that Dan left.  Separated into 3 parts, I now have 2 containers of macaroni and cheese and 2 containers of cheesy pasta chicken thing in the fridge.

Admittedly, this diet lacks in some of the essentials, such as fresh vegetables (ok, ANY vegetables), but I'm confident that I can get through till Monday morning on what I have in the house.  I am thinking of making mashed potatoes, gravy, stuffing and cranberry sauce this weekend - a vegetarian Thanksgiving dinner (but not VEGAN, as my sister would point out, because regular stuffing has animal flavoring in it. Mmmmm).

I think the moral of this story is that you can definitely look in your fridge and cupboards and think "I have nothing to eat", when in fact you can most likely concoct several satisfying (if repetitive) meals from just the jars, boxes and cans that you keep on hand. 

Also, the second moral is that your friends and coworkers will absolutely never let you go hungry.  Gives one a certain sense of security.

P.S. Don't worry, Mom, I'm not starving and I'm not (totally) broke.

Watching Paint Dry

One thing, the most important thing, that anyone who plans to read this blog should know about the author is this:

I love baseball.

I am not a sports fanatic.  I do not have the stats for every one of my favorite teams memorized for each sport.  I don't analyze Sportscenter, read every article on ESPN.com or belong to a single fantasy league for any season. 

I can't name more than a half dozen football players or even three professional basketball stars.  I know nothing about hockey.  I have been known to get distracted by an interesting soccer game on television every now and then, but I couldn't tell you who's playing, and I mostly just watch it for the amusing commentary (European people are hilarious, particularly the British).

But, man, do I love baseball.

It's very easy to pick out a person who doesn't enjoy the sport.  I work at a bar.  In New York. If a Boston Red Sox highlight comes on Sportscenter and I rejoice, everyone in the joint who is a baseball fan (with the exception of the toothless miscreant who lives down the street and the senile blue-haired man who sings Frank Sinatra at random daily intervals - they both like the Sox) will have a nasty comment for me.  Those who are not fans (I like to call them "non-believers") either remain silent or feel the need to toss out a statement like "I can't wait for football season" or "I could never get into baseball" or the most recent, "baseball is so boring, it's like watching paint dry".

This last comment is entirely untrue on several levels.  Paint does not move at all (unless you're sloppy and leave drips).  Paint drying does not draw a crowd,  specifically a crowd of 37,493 for 650+ consecutive home games (if you're a Sox fan).   Fenway Park, incidentally, is the smallest ballpark in the major leagues.  So one can assume the attendance at most other stadiums is higher.

Drying paint doesn't turn you into a crusader.  In 1999, Sox CEO John Harrington announced that Fenway Park would be partially demolished to build a new, modern stadium for the Red Sox nearby.  The city of Boston, region of New England, and members of "Red Sox Nation" across the country revolted.  "Save Fenway Park"  stickers appeared on cars.  It is rumored that the city of Boston was uncooperative with the Sox ownership group, thus blocking the construction of a new park.  Myself, I like to think that city officials are just as big fans as we are.  Regardless of the real cause, Red Sox fans consider it a triumph for their "nation" that the Sox are able to remain at Fenway. 

Paint drying on a wall does not turn you into a selective historian.  I have heard teenagers babble on and on about the "Impossible Dream" season or about the Buckner tragedy of 1986.  I wrote papers in high school about Ted Williams, Joe DiMaggio, and Babe Ruth.  Having read his book twice, I consider myself a bit of an authority on Carl Yastrzemski (I just spelled his name correctly without having to Google it).  I have argued and analyzed at length about the events surrounding the ball-through-the-legs incident of '86.  And I was born in 1985. 

Drying paint does not cause emotions that you never knew you had.  When the Red Sox blew their chances in the 2003 playoffs, I curled into a ball on the single bed in my freshman dorm room and cried myself to sleep while my friends went out partying.   I still get goosebumps thinking about 2004, when I called my mother from a similar dorm room to celebrate the World Series victory and discovered she was crying.

I spent the better part of my childhood listening to the Boston Red Sox on the radio.  We didn't have a cable station available that carried the games, and we were lucky to get to see one every couple weeks on a network.  Joe Castiglione and Jerry Trupiano (exciting in part because their names were fun to say) are the voices I remember from the radio.   "Way back, WAAAAY back, this ball is GONE!"  As it turns out, I don't know if I can tell their voices apart, but both are distinctly etched in my memory.  Trupiano's contract was ditched by the Sox in 2006, long after my parents got cable and also after my move to New York.  However, on the rare occasion that I happen to be driving through New England or sitting at my family's camp in Maine when the broadcast for a Red Sox game begins, they always play a clip of a Castiglione and Trupiano broadcast.  It's enough to make your chest get tight and maybe make your eyes water, depending on the kind of day you've had.  If you aren't a baseball fan, you'll have to take my word for it. 

I may be the daughter of a woman who really, really loves to paint, but I doubt either of us have ever felt that way about watching it dry.