TMI (too much information)

I went through four pairs of underwear today. Now, before you turn away in disgust, let me promise you that there will be no mention of human fecal matter, urine issues, or even girl stuff, in the paragraphs below. And, if you are disappointed by that turn, I sincerely apologize; I am sure there are other blogs out there that might better cater to your interests.

The first two are easy enough to account for. Woke up in a pair, showered, and dressed in a clean pair - pretty standard daily underwear use.

I had to change into a third pair after being caught in a monsoon. Well, to be fair, it was just some rain, but monsoon sounds much more dramatic and even a downpour doesn't encourage accurate images of how wet I became.

It's all the dog's fault. Or, my dog-related guilt. The poor pup continued to look so cute and plaintive about having an outdoor adventure that I agreed to take him for a walk around the lake despite the color of the sky. I like to let him decide the direction at crossroads, although he is such a good dog he waits for the person walking him to lead the way. Today he seemed to know I was trying to short-change him though and immediately chose the long way when I paused to let him point out a direction.

I had set a goal of the next bend to turn around when the trees and the sky and the motion and the air signaled quite clearly that even the next bend was too far. It seemed the exact second I turned around to head back to the car, I turned into a wall of rain. It was refreshing, walking through the dramatic storm, except for the soaked jeans, sloshy shoes, and that tiny hint of danger that always screams out inside girls about the risks of being alone in the woods.

It's amazing how much water comes off a dog in that shake-shake-shake rhythm that zigs down their bodies. Unfortunately, you can really tell how much water flies off the dog - in all directions - when those shake-shake-shakes occur in the backseat of your car. Wow. What a freaking mess. When we made it home I toweled him off, toweled me off, changed into what I'm sure you now recognize as the third pair of underwear, and toweled off the car. I had intended to stop at the store on the way back from our walk, so I headed out in dry gear to pick up dinner ingredients.

And that's when I was just stupid. All that effort to dry off me, dry off the dog, and dry off everything the dog touched or sprayed, and I stupidly sat right down on the wet driver's seat that my previously soaked bottom had dampened. I didn't realize it until I got to the store and was walking towards the door, feeling the wet and looking back to see that my light gray pants were made of the sort of material that screams out wetness by turning a completely different dark color, hinting to strangers that I may well have wet my pants.

And so, despite sitting on a shopping bag for the return trip, upon my arrival home I also arrived at my fourth pair of the day. It's 10:00pm now and I'm trying to remain confident I'm going to hold it to four. Otherwise, tomorrow is definitely laundry day.

Things I've Stopped Doing Since I Left My Job

1. Brushing my hair
2. Eating french fries at lunchtime
3. Wondering if the Code of Federal Regulations or an FDA Guidance addresses the situation in front of me
4. Wearing khakis or any pants that could be considered 'slacks'
5. Drinking bad coffee
6. Saving the drinking of bad coffee as my mid-morning treat
7. Answering the phone "This is Kirsten"
8. Hoarding those preciously tiny, mini binder clips
9. Spending money at Target, my favorite lunchtime haunt
10. Stressing over stupid shit
11. Printing
12. Small talk
13. Knowing the date without looking at my watch
14. Using cans of compressed air to clean cracker crumbs out of my keyboard crevices
15. Spending time in the grocery store during the rush hour crush

Things I Miss Doing Since I Left My Job:

1. Printing

Frozen Steps

I like tripping over metaphors, hearing words in my head about a basic thing that hint at or shout out a double meaning - an application of meaningful import beyond the mundane situation to which they were first applied. And so I offer to you this sage advice:

Be wary of trying to walk on yesterday's frozen footprints.

We had a beautiful snow day on Inauguration Day, a rarity in these parts, and a perfectly cozy and majestically lovely day to watch the changing of the guard. But before the hours of coverage, we joined the dog on a romp through the neighborhood and enjoyed the crisp freshness of a still-falling snow. The next day's dog walk was slightly less crisp, not so much fresh, and far more dangerous. All the footprints of the previous day were now frozen into slippery shoe-shaped soles of ice, with tread and traction detail poking up edgy ice bits.

I found walking on yesterday's frozen footprints difficult and dangerous and a process that slowed me down considerably as the energetic lab I was leashed to desired to prance ahead at a much faster pace. It was no good walking on yesterday's frozen steps, following yesterday's path, trying to recreate an old pattern without acknowledging today's new context and needs. It was necessary to make new steps, a new path, and avoid the slips and jabs of old footprints.

And so I stepped into the unmarred snow and made my way forward with a far more free, far more fulfilling, and far more rapid pace towards my goals, recognizing that yesterday's footprints won't get me to today's places.

Dangers of Sports Radio

I used to listen to broadcasts of my team's basketball games and post-game commentary on a local rock station. A few years ago the rock station became a country station but retained the game broadcasts. Usually I pull in somewhere and hop out of the car with the game still going or the interviews continuing, so it's always a bit disconcerting when I next start the car and am surprised to hear country music blaring.

I had the fortune to attend a game with my brother recently and in our long wait to roll out of the parking lot after our victory, we listened to the coach interview and stats. The next day when I got in the car, I heard one line of a country song. Just one line before my hand shot to the controls and jabbed a button, any button, to change the sounds shooting into my vehicle. I still can't believe these are real words to a real song that is really played on the radio:

"We'll put a bullet in your ass because that's what Americans do".

Consider me speechless.

Whiplash, the Cowboy Monkey

My boyfriend thinks I don't like monkeys. I have no problem with monkeys; I am sure they are charming creatures. Sure, the weird butt ones freak me out some, but for the most part they are an incredibly adorable species. What bothers me is monkeys in clothing, monkeys on tv, monkeys made to look like they are talking in commercials while dressed up in miniature human outfits to shill cars or diapers or mp3 players. It's like a (more) warped version of children's beauty pageants and I find it disturbing. Monkeys in the wild, all for it. Monkeys in the zoo, sort of sad, but zoos are getting better. Monkeys on tv, insulting to both them and I.

Now, I know that the title of this post is by far the most interesting one I have written. If I was coming to this blog for the first time, I would certainly click on "Whiplash, the Cowboy Monkey" first. I wish I had made it up, that I was responsible for some ridiculous cowboy monkey imagery purely from my witty imagination. Sadly, Whiplash is indeed a cowboy monkey. He was brought out during a period break at the hockey game we attended recently as an enticement to the rodeo occuring in the same arena the next day. Whiplash, the Cowboy Monkey, was of course dressed in a miniature cowboy outfit - chaps, vest, hat - and was riding a dog. It appeared that Whiplash's main trick was begin strapped to a dog, while the border collie below him was well trained to spin about and rear into the air, just as if Whiplash were riding a bronco.

It was probably the most horrible thing I have ever seen at a sporting event. And I was at a football game when a referee fell to the ground from a heart attack. I hope old Whiplash is happy with his life, and perhaps he does enjoy riding around on a dog saddle. If he were in a children's book, he would love the roar of the crowd and seeing the world. I'm going to try to believe in that version, casting him as a Curious George type. I hope that version of Whiplash makes it big, except that I still won't want to see him on tv.

"Don't run with the cheese"

It's weird the things you hear yourself say when a toddler is around, especially when you find yourself repeating phrases. This Christmas celebration heard a chorus of "don't run with the cheese", as a precious 3 1/2 year old would run triumphantly from the kitchen with her slice of american cheese aloft, only to have a playful pup chase after her. Maybe perhaps without a dog around, running with the cheese would be okay, but encouraging the dog to start a chasing game with taunting food involved seemed unwise.

With repetition, "don't run with the cheese', starts to offer a mantra-like sound, hinting at a hidden meaning, a grand metaphor for life. I've been turning the phrase over for days, trying to hear what the cheese has to tell me.

I have long known the depressing truth that it is often easier to get through life if you appear mediocre. Examples are endless of how not standing out requires you not to stand out, but a simple A and B comparison was evident in my first job out of college. I was a legal assistant sitting next to another legal assistant. She was incompetent, I was competent. Attorneys brought me work, and the increasingly challenging work, to protect themselves from the mess she made of things. We made the same salary and when I argued for a raise, it was given to her as well, since in theory we were doing the same job. At the end of the day I was doing more work and working harder than her for the same amount of money because: she was mediocre.

Of course there is much to be said for the long-term results of this example. I left for graduate school after a year so was not able to benefit from the reputation I believe I had built that would have led to progress in the company while she sat in the same cubicle with her radio on just loud enough to annoy me. While perhaps in the short-term, mediocrity is safer and easier, in the long-term I have to admit that it is no way to achieve your goals.

Which brings me back to the cheese. I think the reason the phrase has been loitering in my thoughts is because it's wrong. You should run with the cheese. You should hold it high and flaunt it and say "Look at me! I'm a badass with some cheese!" and face the threatening chasers head on. Of course, for a toddler, still, don't run with the cheese, but for me, I think it's time.