Doctors, Lawyers, and Circus Freaks

Friday night, Roger and I went with the usual suspects to Madame Zingara’s Theatre of Dreams – kind of a small-scale Cirque du Soleil style dinner theatre. It was truly mesmerizing, but as the cast of the show wowed us with their freakish strength and flexibility, I started thinking about my sister and I as little girls - plotting to take our ‘airplane’ act (you know, where one person ‘flies’ on the other person’s feet) and run away with the circus. Now, I don’t want to brag or anything, but we were pretty good. Who knows where we might be had we continued to develop the routine? We could be touring with Madame Zingara’s Theatre of Dreams!

Okay, so maybe I don’t really want to be a circus freak, but I left that night with a gnawing feeling of envy in my stomach. It’s not that I want to be a circus performer, but I want to be…something. At least Madame Zingara's cast members have a skill, a specialization. When they move to a new town and need a job, they know exactly where to go. The circus. They are circus performers.

But what about me? What am I? I’m smart, sure, but I don't really have a skill or a specialization. I’m not a doctor or a lawyer or a teacher. I never learned a trade like hair dressing or fixing cars. I’m not an expert at anything. I suppose you could say I was an expert at school, but after sixteen years, what do I actually have to show for it? At this very moment my hard-earned liberal arts degree is beautifully framed and stashed in my mom’s attic. Collecting dust. Not that it was doing much better on my wall when I lived in Atlanta. There it hung, mocking the fact that my career in real-estate was completely non-dependent on my fancy-pants education.

Who cares though, right? I mean, everybody knows that it doesn’t really matter where you go to school, just as long as you go – a fact I ignored when I took out the huge student loans to go to Vanderbilt. Of course, everyone also said it didn’t matter what you major in, just as long as you graduate. Now, this advice I took to heart. I didn’t worry about the fact that I had no clue what I wanted to do after graduation; I figured it would fall into place eventually. But the thing is, it hasn’t. And sometimes I wonder if it’s because I never actually came to a decision regarding What I Want to Be When I Grow Up. I came up with a lot of ideas, but I certainly never gave my final answer. As a little girl I wanted to be a farmer…then a movie star…then a veterinarian…

By the time I was accepted to college, I had decided to be a doctor. But the course manual was overflowing with classes like “Rhetoric of the Mass Media,” “Beethoven to the Beetles,” “Images of Women,” and “Gender Trouble.” How could I waste my time in Molecular Biology when these pressing topics were beckoning me to their cause? So four years later, my mom proudly watched me graduate cum laude with a degree in Communications. And stop rolling your eyes, because my major was not a joke, and my classes were anything but fluff (okay, I’ll give you the History of Magic and Witchcraft). But I did it. I succeeded. I can communicate. With honors nonetheless.

But what was the point? It’s not that I regret my one hundred and twenty-four university credits, but I’ve long since realized that they have absolutely nothing to do with my current situation.

Here I am, nearly thirty (okay, nearly twenty-nine, but close enough) and I still don’t know what I’m doing with my life. Maybe I’m putting too much pressure on myself, but it seems like most of my friends have figured it out by now...so why haven’t I? It’s ironic, I guess. Most women spend their twenties agonizing over if and when they will fall in love and get married. They go on dates, get into relationships then break up, only to start all over again, back at square one.

For me, the love and marriage part came easy, but I’ve spent the better part of the last decade flirting with careers. I go on job interviews, start a career then change my mind (or leave town!), only to start all over again, back at square one. Just look at my track record. First I was a magazine intern, then a bartender, then an investor relations coordinator, a financial consultant, a peanut-butter factory worker (!), a waitress, a temp, a real-estate agent, a copywriter…

Ah yes, which brings me to my current status. Writer. Or copywriter, to be exact. Part-time. ‘Freelance.’ I enjoy it, sure, but do I have what it takes to do this full-time? For clients not related to me? After a year of testing the waters at my brother-in-law’s ad agency, I should feel confident in that fact, right? And yet…I still don’t feel like an expert. I’m paralyzed with self-doubt. I just wish I had a skill that could be quantified and contained. Why couldn’t I have been a mathematician? Or a farmer? You either solve the equation or you don’t. Your crops grow or they don’t. At the end of the day, you have verifiable proof of whether or not you’re any good at your chosen profession.

But alas, I am not a mathematician or a farmer. I’m not a doctor or a lawyer or a circus freak either. And although I’m not yet thirty (or even twenty-nine), it still feels a bit late to go to med school or start working on the ‘airplane’ routine again (unless you’re up for it, D!). So what can I do?

Well, for starters, I need to stop wallowing in the could haves and should haves. I need to focus on what I am good at, then figure out how to make the most of it. And I seem to be pretty good at writing. (Check out that confidence) Maybe it’s okay that I still haven’t figured out exactly how to turn that skill into a successful career. After all, with the ever-increasing average human lifespan and the inevitable failure of Social Security, I’ll probably have to work until I’m eighty, so I certainly don’t want to choose a career lightly. Or commit to something too soon. I’ve got the next fifty years to become an expert on something…no need to hurry the process, right?

They’re Ba-aack.

The in-laws are back from the UK. Yes, we were given a two week reprieve from ‘looking after’ my father-in-law while he joined the M-I-L in Scotland, but now they're both back. So today the fam went out for Sunday lunch to celebrate...which is always fun of course.

Roger and I are in the back seat of my father-n-law’s car as we all set off for the restaurant (Bombay Blues, which is one of my favorites, because as my husband knows, yummy food is the best way to bribe me to go along on these occasions). We've been in the car about 3.5 seconds and already the M-I-L is screaming at Bryan for the way he's driving and how grumpy he's being and he's shouting back at her for shouting at him and the whole scene is so completely typical of them that for some reason, instead of making me furious, it only makes me wanna laugh. Suddenly, the world spins backwards and a brave sarcastic chick takes over my body and I hear myself interject at a perfectly timed lull with: "Awwww, we missed you guys!"

Roger can hardly contain his laughter, but the joke is totally lost on the M-I-L. “Well, I‘m sure you didn’t miss this,” she says, completely oblivious to my sarcasm. “He’s just completely impossible.”

Roger and I exchange a look. They’re both impossible. But this is our life. This is the life we’ve chosen. For now anyway. The choice possibly indicates the need for a straight jacket in our very near future but it’s our choice nonetheless. And we do love them. We do.

And hopefully, when the time comes, the men in white coats will let Roger and I share a padded cell.

Gilmore-ganza

Robyn would like to apologize for the lack of new (legitimate) content on her blog this weekend. She spent all of Saturday and Sunday watching Season 2 of the Gilmore Girls on DVD, much to her husband’s feigned dismay and the boys at the video shop’s genuine amusement. But she was not to be deterred. Focused. Determined. Dedicated. She remained loyal and faithful to Lorelai and Rory for forty-eight solid hours. Now bring on Season 3…

What can I say? I heart the Gilmore Girls. I’m not sure what it is about them… Maybe it’s the mile-a-minute witty banter, the obscure pop culture references, the belittling of Mariah Carey and Glitter... Or perhaps it’s the familiar sisterly relationship between the mother-daughter duo or the constant will-they-or-won’t-they drama between Luke and Lorelai or even the oddly relatable parental set (who at times remind me of my in-laws!). Maybe it’s that the fictional town of Stars Hollow, Connecticut satisfies the small town lust I’ve harbored since I was a little girl growing up in sprawling suburbia. Or maybe it's just that I'm sick of the Olympics. I’m not exactly sure.

Is it the best show to ever grace the small screen? Well, I don't know if I'd go that far. I’m not even sure I’d go so far as to say it’s the best teeny-bopper drama ever brought to us by the WB/UPN/CW. (Let’s just say, I’m not ready to name my first born ‘Rory,’ though ‘Buffy’ and ‘Veronica’ are still in the mix.) But maybe it’s the fact that I know Gilmore Girls is my sister’s favorite television show ever, and watching it obsessively is yet another desperate attempt to shrink the distance between us. Sigh. Oddly enough, I feel like it’s working somehow.

But that can’t be the only reason I like it. Seriously, it’s a really good show! I mean, even Roger is getting in on the G.G. action. I would never publicly embarrass my husband by suggesting that he instigated the whole Gilmore-ganza Weekend, but he was definitely along for the ride. Of course, there was a very manly break taken yesterday afternoon for the Arsenal game and some Tri-Nations rugby, but once he was finished cheering for Arsenal, he was right back with me - cheering for Luke and Lorelai.

So, yes, that was my weekend...no brainpower left over for the blog. But now I'm back from Stars Hollow, for a little while anyway, and ready to face reality yet again.

I might need some coffee first though…anybody wanna meet me at Luke’s?

The Queen of Multi-tasking

I can do seventeen things at once. Occasionally eighteen, depending on the circumstances, of course. It’s a talent, really. I can simultaneously cook dinner, do the laundry, unload the dishwasher, watch the news, update my iPod and surf the internet. Okay that’s only six things, but that’s just one example. Whether it’s juggling chores at home or tackling projects at work, I always approach tasks from the most logically efficient angle. I even brush my teeth while I pee. I am the Queen of Multi-tasking. It’s a gift.

Sometimes.

Other times, I think my multi-tasking tendencies are just a manifestation of undiagnosed ADD. Seriously. I’m like an overeager puppy with too many toys. And while I may look like I’m getting things accomplished, in reality I’m just running in circles. My mornings, for example. I wake up and focus on the first task at hand – my morning run. Now, running doesn’t really allow for multi-tasking, which is perhaps why I like it (though whether I actually like it or am simply a masochist is still up for debate). During my run I am calm and focused. But then I get back to the house and the multi-tasking begins. I start the coffee first, then turn on the shower to let the water heat up while I take off my clothes and sort the laundry. This usually leads to making the bed too. But by now the shower has been running for five minutes so I’m wasting precious hot water. I scurry to the shower.

The next fifteen minutes or so proceed much like any other woman’s morning routine. It’s after I’m dressed that the ‘fluttering’ begins. I finish making the bed. I gather up the pile of laundry to throw in the machine. I go to the kitchen to start the laundry and get much-needed coffee. I often get as far as putting the clothes in the washing machine but then move onto the coffee without actually putting detergent into the washer or turning it on. So I pour coffee, then move on to making and drinking a fruit smoothie while preparing lunches for my husband and me. (Meanwhile, said husband has finished his breakfast and is lounging in front of the TV doing a little multi-tasking of his own – flipping between CNN and Sports Center).

I finish the lunches. Realize my coffee is cold. Try to slug it back while gathering up the various items and bags that will accompany me to the office. Roger flips off the TV, carries his dishes to the sink and offers to take my bags to the car which he does while I wash his breakfast dishes, do three more laps around the house, and then join him in the garage. Inevitably, I will have forgotten something in the house (water bottle, purse, cell phone, lunch, realize that I never started the washing machine, etc.) and will have to run back in before we can actually leave. That’s my morning.

Thursday was a morning much like any other, only the maid was coming. This should make me a bit more relaxed right? But come on, don’t be silly, everyone knows you have to tidy up before the maid comes (Roger assures me this is not the case, but I just can’t stop myself).

So I’m fluttering around the house in my usual post-run-get-ready-make-lunches-drink-coffee-wash-dishes routine, and I’m in the kitchen when I realize that my cell phone is still in the bedroom and if I don’t get it while I’m thinking about it I will probably leave without it. But once in the bedroom, I see the pile of laundry that I have yet to put on and think I should go ahead and get it started so the maid doesn’t have to (Why? I don’t know!). As I gather up the laundry, I notice the book that I’m almost finished with sitting on the foot of the bed where I have strategically placed it so as not to forget to bring it with me so I have something to read when I take my niece to her scrapbooking class this afternoon. Despite my armful of laundry, I grab the book too in order to save myself another trip to the bedroom. Multi-tasking, see?

I return to the kitchen to put the laundry in the machine – for once remembering to put soap in and actually turn it on. But now I realize that I forgot to get my phone which was, of course, the original purpose for my mission to the bedroom (forgetting the original task is a common problem with my multi-tasking). I go back to the bedroom. I get the phone. I throw my gym bag over my shoulder and grab my purse, lunch and water bottle and head to the car (my laptop is still in the car where I’ve been leaving it so as not to be tempted to get online in the evenings...mission accomplished, by the way). I dump everything in the car and realize I forgot the stupid book. I run back into the house but I don’t see it on the counter and don’t really have time to hunt for it. I leave the house in a whirlwind, barely remembering to kiss my husband who is still camped out on the couch.

Fast forward eight hours to me at the shopping center where my niece is attending her scrapbooking class. Since I didn’t bring my book, I’m window shopping in the center while I wait for her to finish. My phone rings. It’s Roger.

“Do you know where your book is?” he asks.

He obviously has the answer to this question, and clearly, he finds it humorous.

“Did you find it in the driveway or something? Did I leave it on the roof of the car when I drove off?”

“Um, noooo.”

I wait for him to tell me where it is, but he’s clearly enjoying this far too much to end the suspense.

“Where is it, Roger? What did I do now?”

“The maid found it in the washing machine!” The sound of his laughter makes me want to jump through the phone and strangle him. “Was there a reason you wanted to wash your book? Wait, isn’t this the book you borrowed from Mum?” This somehow makes it even funnier.

“I’ll buy her another one.” I say, fuming. I’m not sure why just yet, but I am sure this is Roger’s fault…somehow.

“It’s okay, Robyn,” he says, finally realizing that I’m not seeing the humor of the situation. “I might be able to salvage some of it – at least enough so you can finish it. I know you were really enjoying it.”

“Just throw it away,” I snap. “I don’t want to see it. I’ll go to the shop now and buy a new copy.”

“Okay,” he says, and the confusion in his voice sends a pang of guilt through me. “Love you.”

“Love you too,” I grumble before closing my cell phone.

It’s not fair, I know, but I tend to blame Roger for, well, everything. It’s just easier than admitting I might be less than perfect myself. So, I rationalize that if Roger would do just a fraction of all the crap that I do in the morning, then maybe I wouldn’t be frazzled enough to put a New York Times Best Seller in the washing machine! I spend my drive home honing this argument and feel adequately prepared to hurl the blame at him when I walk through the door. I’m ready for a fight.

But in typical Roger style, he nods as he listens to my argument and admits he could be a bit more helpful. He then calmly makes suggestions that might ease my usual morning ‘fluttering.’ One suggestion being to actually let the maid do laundry and wash dishes on the day that she comes. He points out that many of the tasks I set out to do, don’t always need to be done at the moment I decide to do them.

He’s right. I know this about myself. And I’ve always been this way, I guess, but particularly since moving here. I think because I no longer have a crazy-stressful job, I feel obligated to create crazy-stress for myself at home. And I do create it. I know I do. And I'm working on it, but I just can’t seem to stop myself…after all, it would be a shame to let so much multi-tasking talent go to waste, right?

Then again, after sending A Thousand Splendid Suns through the spin cycle, I'm starting to think maybe I'm not quite as talented as I thought...

PS Those of you with children are probably laughing hysterically that I think my mornings are hectic. I truly cannot imagine trying to get a little person ready and out the door as well as myself. This is part of the reason I don’t have children. I honestly don’t know how you do it…and all without pouring coffee in the baby bottle or packing diapers in your laptop bag. I'm in awe.

Back away from the laptop...

This has gotten out of control.

It’s pathetic, really, and it’s time. No, it’s past time. Time for me to close the laptop, and back away slowly.

What started as a normal, healthy relationship has turned into an obsessive, all consuming affair. It’s an addiction, a compulsion...it’s the internet. Actually, more specifically, it's my email. The obsession is with the internet in general – I can get lost in there for hours - but the reason I dive in to begin with is an unhealthy attachment to my email.

I wasn’t always this way. There was a time in my life when connections with friends and family were face to face, or at least cell to cell. But not anymore. Now, I have to stay plugged into gmail in order to feel the love. That being said, I suppose it’s not unusual that I’ve stepped up my internet activity since moving to this side of the planet. It’s been a steady and constant progression though, and now I’m afraid I’ve crossed the line between lonely girl trying to communicate with loved ones and crazy girl incapable of being away from her laptop for more than a few hours at a time.

I blame, at least in part, the time difference. You see, for the better part of my workday, most of you people are still in bed. So my inbox gets very little action during the hours I’m actually supposed to be sitting in front of my computer. So, I usually close up my laptop at the end of the workday feeling slightly unloved. But then, I’m at home a few hours later and think perhaps now someone has found time in their busy day at the office to send me an email. So I open up my laptop...just to check. Sometimes yes, sometimes no. But I’m always checking.

Now some of you are probably thinking, ‘Well if she’s online so much, why don’t I get more emails?’ (Others of you probably wish I wouldn’t rebound your inbox quite so quickly. Sorry, D. - I just can’t help it.) But here’s the thing; while I do obsessively check emails, I don’t obsessively write them. If I get one, I’m pretty good about replying, but I rarely initiate. It’s like I’ve told you before, I kinda think of this blog as an email, so if you’re reading it, you pretty much know what’s going on with me. I don’t have much else to add about my life. But if you email me with the juicy details of your life, I will most certainly feel obliged to reply relatively quickly with comments and unsolicited advice.

But as usual, I digress.

The thing is, I start out jonesing for an email hit, but once I’m parked in front of the screen, I start opening new windows to simultaneously check MSN and CNN and the NY Times. And don’t even get me started on the blogosphere. I’ve been swallowed whole. I mostly read blogs about writing which is ironic because it’s these very blogs that are keeping me from writing! Pathetic, I know. And then of course there are the celebrity gossip sites and the food network site and the illegal downloading sites and of course facebook and Scrabulous…

But it’s time to detox. Now, I can’t cut myself off completely (for work purposes, she tells herself), but this week, I am going to limit my internet access to the office. In fact, I’m not even going to open my computer in the evenings. It may not seem like a big step to you, but I’m slightly terrified. In fact, I’ve been telling myself I was going to do this for about a month now and I haven’t been able to stick to it. I’m hoping that the public announcement will keep me focused on the goal at hand.

Oh, what was I saying? Oh yes, stay focused. (She writes after having abandoned the blog for twenty minutes to write a quick reply to an email.)

I realize by admitting to all of this that I’ve lost any cool points I might have had (whatever, like I had any to begin with). But there you have it. While you are busy at work, I am pathetically at home waiting by my inbox to hear from you. And probably reading Pink is the New Blog while I wait.

But not this week...at least, well...we’ll see how it goes.