Weeekends!

Weekends are always great, but weeekends are even better. (See that? Extra day off = extra E). Steer clear of the wekends though. That shit is just insulting.

Thanks to Presidents' Day last month, (That is why we had that holiday, right?) we all got an extra 24 hours to credit toward activities/obligations of our choosing. I thought I really loved three day weekends in college, but once you acquire a 9-5 jobbie job, you realize that college was a three-day-weekend. A four-year-long three-day-weekend. Oh, real life (sigh). Oh, bills and rent (double sigh).

Whoa, back it up. This is a happy post.

Alright, so I just basically had a freaking awesome weekend (honoring our former president, George Washington, of course), and I wanted to share it with you:

Saturday - volunteering with Hurricane Sandy clean-up and then singing with my cousin

Sunday - cousin brunch; auntie dinner

Monday - laundry, band practice again, and Downton Abby

...ok, so I didn't do much with my extra day. So sue me.

First things first. "Begin at the beginning and go on till you come to the end: then stop." (#LewisCarroll #AlicesAdventuresInWonderland) (Are hashtags just twenty-first century citations? The bibliography of the future? Is Twitter just one long Works Cited page? These are important questions.)

Saturday. I woke up and caught the Long Island Railroad out to Long Beach to assist with clean-up from Hurricane Sandy. It was hella cold, and it actually snowed at one point, but I spent the morning pulling out drywall from a first-floor bedroom in a house that flooded when the storm came through. I had found All Hands Volunteers on the Twitters, so when I showed up to help I didn't know any of the other volunteers. Though I did get to know a very nice older woman named Ann who helped pull out stray nails from the floor boards. After the demolition we decided to grab lunch. Over thai we discussed being vegetarian (her currently, me formerly), world travel, and college admissions (she's a high school art teacher). Ann was such a cool lady, and it was really refreshing to make a new friend and just chat for a while, to just let life do its thing and introduce me to who it thought appropriate.

Oh, but before lunch, we walked along what remained of the damaged boardwalk. All that was left were the concrete pillars that had held the boardwalk up. The wooden ramps from the road were gone, the steps down to the beach weren't there, and sand had been bull-dozed to create a sort of wall separating the debris from the incoming tide. As I stood there, I saw runners jogging by the waves and people walking their dogs. The aftermath is just really surreal. 

Concrete is all that's left of the boardwalk.

Beach (and Ann).

What little did remain of the boardwalk had collapsed.

Surviving pillars.

Walls of sand.

 This last one is a big rough, but you get the idea.

Later that night I had plans to go over some songs with my cousin, Heather. She's a badass and you'll hear more about her as I continue this blog, so remember the name. We have a gig in Brooklyn (tonight actually) and had planned a few run-throughs so we'd be prepared. After such a long day on Long Island, all I wanted in the world was to climb into sweatpants and a t-shirt and watch a movie with a bottle of wine (glass of wine? I meant glass of wine... of course). But I had made plans with Heather, so my sweatpants and I hopped back on the subway for band practice (can I still call it band practice if I'm not actually playing an instrument?)

After going over a few songs in Heather's apartment, Mark the Guitar Player suggested we drop in on a speak easy nearby where the bluegrass folks like to have jam sessions. I guess if you're going anywhere public in sweatpants on a Saturday night, a speak easy is probably your least embarassing bet. I could just pretend that I was intentionally dressing down... you know, to be ironic. This is Brooklyn, after all... It was amazing though. This place was an unmarked bar, and as I walked in the side-door-that-was-the-front-door, I saw about ten people (mostly old men) sitting around with guitars, fiddles, banjos, harmonicas, and an auto harp. At one point a man entered with a bass. An upright bass. A three-quarter bass? I don't even know what it's properly called, but this man was serious! You do not just stroll along the streets of NYC with your bass, just in case you stumble upon the opportunity to play with some strangers. Or maybe you do. I don't play one so I don't know... But Heather and I sang a few covers from Oh, Brother Where Art Thou and the young hipster crowd sang with the chorus, and the band (our impromptu, motley crew, live band) went around the circle so that every instrument had their turn to perform a solo. Then we'd come back in with the final verses, finish the song, and go grab another beer to enjoy some really awesome live music.

The next morning Heather and I ordered brunch-for-delivery (jealous?) and listened to old blues records. We got to talking about New York and the stress and over-stimulation of it and how somewhere so densely populated can be so completely isolating. Honestly, I can't tell you how relieved I was to hear that somebody else felt that this city can make you a little crazy... (this has been a theme in my life recently, but I'll elaborate more in another post).

That evening I had dinner plans with my great aunts, so I walked back down to the subway to get myself from the bottom of Brooklyn up to the top of Queens. I spent the night chatting with the aunties over lamb chops and red wine and hearing how pretty my hair looked. These ladies are so great for that. They always fill me full with good food and compliments and make me feel like my sweatpants and ponytail are suddenly effortlessly stylish.

With the windchill outside the temperature had dropped down to 1 degree. A single degree. And as I decided to stay overnight, I came to fully appreciate the unforeseen practicality in my choice of attire since this weekend had morphed into a series of overnight visits with my relatives. I'd borrowed a few books of Heather's (in connection with the theme I mentioned earlier. Seriously, stay tuned!) so I climbed into the twin bed in the upstairs guest room to do some reading. This just happened to be the same bedroom in which I'd slept for my first month after moving to New York, back in October of 2010 before I found a place of my own. I got to thinking about how much I've changed since then (and how I haven't) and how many things I've been able to experience in just over two years.

I guess you could call this weekend a stay-cation of sorts: getting out of the house and connecting with others, whether they be strangers or family. I didn't necessarily get away from the city, but I had found a few precious enclaves where the speed and impatience of New York couldn't get to me. Being with people you don't have to impress is so crucial and healthy, but it's not always an easy thing to find here. 

And as I stated in the beginning, I didn't really do much with my Monday off, but regardless of what you choose to do with it, a free day is always a good day in my book.

Updates

I have two new things to tell you. They are both equally wonderful, and yet so very, very different.

First new thing. A laptop. It was about damn time. Do you know what I've been working with here? A Powerbook G4. Never heard of it? That's because it was produced while I was still in high school. Reminder: I've been a college grad for three years now (I know, sooooo old).

I acquired this computer via (what I consider to be) somewhat sneaky means. I don't actually know under what circumstances/dealings/agreements we came to own this G4 (so many years ago) because my mother has her ways, and she doesn't always explain them. Then again, I don't always ask... Hm. Anyway, I think we can safely credit Craigslist. (The woman can get you ANYTHING with the Craigslist). We updated all the software when it switched owners, so it worked beautifully for a long while. However, time has passed and left my trusty little MacBook in the dust. It can't be unplugged from the wall without shutting down (not so much a "laptop" as a desktop now), the internal hardware is too old to support current software updates, it doesn't play video, and among other things, it never, ever remembers what day it is. 

Every time I turn on my computer I get a message telling me that the date is incorrect and that "this may cause some applications to behave erratically." A small part of me is super pleased to see such specific vocabulary from my computer machine. It's so old, but still so spunky. Erratic behavior... What does that even mean? What could that possibly be like ... a frat party for my programs? Spring break for my applications? This knowledge of my computer's wild side comforts me, in a way.

Daily life with a soon-to-be-retired G4...

Step 1: re-find my wireless network since it never remembers that either. Step 2: reset the date because, no, it is not December 31st, 1969... just like it wasn't yesterday, or the day before that.

Ah, here it is with a confused tea cup, taken just a few weeks ago. So sleek, those keys. Moving on is tough, y'all. Is it weird that I've attached different computers to different stages of my life? The college Dell, the post-grad G4, and now I've moved on to the Pro. This computer has some high expectations...

Needless to say, the time had come to catch up with the world. So weekend before last I bought a new MacBook Pro. It's lovely. And portable. And it always knows what day it is. I'm still trying to decide what to name her. I feel strongly that she is an Ethel or an Edna. What can I say, my new computer is an old soul...

Alright. New thing number two is a confession of sorts because I have come to a rather special time in my life. I have adopted an at-home uniform: a Target V-neck and yoga pants. Even if you haven't done anything athletic that day, you feel like you've accomplished something when you're in yoga pants. And sometimes, that's really enough.

Let it be known that this in no way feels like a surrender of my self respect. In fact, I think I've reached a new level of "adult". Or at least a new level of comfort. I look forward to this, my new mature-ish routine. It's a form of security that I had never appreciated before, just knowing my uniform is waiting for me. 

Well, there you have it. I should like to point out that this post was composed on Edna by yours truly. In uniform, no less. Oh, look at that, the two have been connected. This post is now complete.

Field Trip!

I'm 24, and the week before last, I went on a weekday field trip. To the zoo. I'm completely serious. Let me explain.

Last Thursday morning I found myself driving upstate to attend a college fair at a high school in my recruitment territory. This was no ordinary high school because, believe it or not, this school has a zoo. Some of you may be thinking, "Hell, Caitlin. My high school felt like a zoo, every day." 

Well... then... I'm sorry. (I'm not dismissing your feelings. Mine did too).

But this particular school boasts a six-acre, real, actual zoo where students can care for animals, give tours, and even curate exhibits. Here are some pictures from my tour:

Baby owlets. 

She was a tricky one to get a picture of, so instead here is a terrifying illustration of the Red Panda. Clealy, this was my favorite info marker and animal. Yes, it is endangered. It also looks like a cross between a baby bear, a raccoon, and a fox, and its behavior is very similar to that of a cat. This sketch would make a great tattoo, I think. Not on me, of course. But on someone.

Emu. Terrifying in real life. 

Unfortunately, I did not get to take any animals home with me. They also did not let me pet any... But they have some really impressive students who explained something called 'enrichment,' which is where a new toy is placed in the animal's exhibit on a regular basis to keep things interesting. Because their habitats are smaller than the area they would roam in the wild, these objects function to occupy the animal and maintain their clever, animal-y problem-solving skills. One very insightful student said that her time spent volunteering at the zoo was her enrichment each week. Loved that.

My favorite Capital Region water.

And an impromptu photo shoot, complete with overly-enthusiastic wind: 

Whew! Awesome daycation (work-cation?). Whatever. Keep talking me out of that red panda tat you guys, and I'll keep showing you Upstate NY.

The Old Maid Theory

First! A disclaimer: In order to best understand this post, it is recommended that you know how to play the card game Old Maid. You don't? Well then, let me Google that for you. If you think you know how to play, but suspect that you have been misled in your comprehension of the rules, then A) this will be a very important post in your life, and B) you are not alone. Ok, armed with this knowledge, you may now continue your reading.


I was well past the acceptable age to learn such things when I was finally told that holding the Old Maid card at the end of the game was not, in fact, the universal signal that you had won. I was a few years into the age of the double digits before I came to the very deep understanding that a senile housekeeper is not actually desirable. This simple fact had eluded me for years because I had been distracted by the joy and satisfaction of my (false) success. Growing up, I simply thought that maintaining possession of the Old Maid was the way to win.

Since both my parents worked summers, as a child I spent many June and July days with my paternal grandparents. Now, Grandma McCown is one of the sweetest women on the planet, and pretty early on she made the executive decision to let me play this game on my own terms. My interpretation of a successful game of Old Maid pleased me so much that she didn't have the heart to tell me otherwise. I don't remember learning that Santa wasn't real, but when I was told the truth about the Old Maid, my perspective on life took a significant turn in much the same way (I would imagine) that many children's lives did when they learned that big secret about Christmas. To call it a watershed moment in my young life would be appropriate, I think. It created what some might consider to be a seismic shift in my awareness of the world around me... (this is only a mild exaggeration).

All those years that I had selected unknown cards from the hands of others, hoping that this time, just maybe, fortune would guide my little outstretched fingers to the card I wanted most... All those years that I had gleefully watched others choose pair-able cards from my hand, assuring me that the Old Maid was left safely in place for yet another round... And all those years that I had victoriously leaped to my feet when all the other cards had been matched and laid on the table, one pair at a time, with crooked smile beaming (pre-braces, of course), and fists in the air, one clutching the coveted card for which the game itself was named... All those years. I had been living a lie.

Oh, the joy had been real, but the victory was an illusion. It didn't really exist. Someone else has won, or maybe the whole table had won, but really the only clear distinction that the final card revealed was that, all along, I had been losing. Forget the counting of matched pairs, I thought it was the old woman alone who determined our fate.

It was my pure excitement that kept my grandmother from telling me I had actually lost, that the feat that made me so proud was actually the short straw in the bunch. In my mind, that one straw, so different from all the others, had made me the winner. After the truth was revealed, this new, more technically correct version of the game felt like uncharted territory the first few plays. I was now supposed to avoid something that I had always been striving for. The Old Maid was no longer my trusted friend, but an unreliable enemy to be dodged and shunned at all costs.

As you can imagine, the game hasn't really been the same for me ever since. There was a certain positivity to chasing a goal, and that evaporated when the motivation to acquire became the motivation to run away from. To me, that is inherently negative. But, the point of this whole story is that I have decided to come back to that first version of the game we played for so many years. I think there is a good lesson to be learned here, and I'm going to re-incorporate it into my "adult life." General consensus may agree that there is one way to win and one set of rules to follow. I'm calling bullshit. I liked the method of "losing" so much better, so I'm just going to focus on that instead. It may be unconventional, but I'll gather around me people like my grandmother who have the vision to see that the card itself isn't the prize - that emotion, that joy is the real reward. 

Talent hits a target no one else can hit.

Genius hits a target no one else can see.

- Arthur Schopenhauer

I'm dropboxing this perspective into my worldview, and I'm going to keep motivating myself to find ways to apply it in my life. It's easier to strive toward things we are told bring happiness: certain jobs, incomes, perfect partners, more and more possessions... but I think it's more worthwhile (a better use of our time) to step back and understand not what makes people happy, but what makes you happy. To hit those targets though, won't it be difficult?

*****

"Hello, my name is Caitlin, and I'm an overthinker." Little thoughts in their little laced up running shoes sprint through my head all day, and its getting really crowded in there. Uncomfortable even. What makes me happy is writing down these ideas and giving them homes outside of my brain where they can run free (or take root) and they can mingle with other thoughts and bloom, unrestricted, if they so choose. Honestly, it makes me nervous to let them out and let other people see them, my vulnerable little thought-babies. But my grey matter was becoming not unlike an episode of Hoarders, where nothing could be found among the disorganized piles of clutter, and there wasn't room for anything new. Hoarding (even thought-hoarding) is a disease, and this blog is my twelve-step program for coming clean and getting healthy (ok, it's really a one-step program [too many thoughts? well then, just write 'em down for crying out loud!], and I can't imagine there are eleven more steps, but there are probably like, I dunno, maybe two or three more, but I figure they'll just reveal themselves when it's time, if they do exist).

Anyway. It may not always be conventional, but my life tends to work itself out on its own time.  I mean, I'm glad to know now how the rest of the world plays Old Maid, but honestly, I think I prefer my own way. It's so easy to complain and focus on the negative, but what if these things we complain about just need to be seen in a different light? I've made the executive decision recently to start looking for the Old Maids in my life. What have I been avoiding or evading? I think I've been wrongly accusing her of being inherently bad, when a change in my perspective could give me a completely different outcome. I'm challenging myself to start seeing the things I so easily complain about as potential instruments of happiness. This is all much easier said than done, but I'll be sure to let you know how it goes.

Happiness is an Old Maid card.