In My Dream World

Normally I take my time to plan out and write my blog posts. I first write them down on paper, longhand, because I feel like I can better collect my thoughts when my hand is holding the pen. I like the flow, as if the words are coming down my arm from my brain, ink stains on paper the evidence of my thoughts. The same argument could be made for typing I am sure, but to me it is not the same. The pen feels like an extension of my hand, while the keyboard feels foreign, requiring taps instead of a gentle caress. The paper is very important as well; I like the feel of its smooth surface beneath my hand, the way an entire page can suddenly come to life with my words. It doesn’t look quite the same filling an endless blank space on my computer screen, the font impersonal, the permanence seemingly less so, even though what we put on the Internet is doomed to last forever, and my words on paper are mine alone.

But tonight I am going right to the screen. I do not have enough time for my normal process. I cannot sit here spending hours writing down the ideas that form in my head, my brain two sentences ahead of my pen. Tonight I do not have the time for such a luxury, because tonight I am supposed to be packing for China. In my dream world, I was packed hours ago. In reality, I haven’t even started, it’s 6:33 pm, and I am soon going downstairs to make farfalle carbonara and watch a movie with my family. I want to pretend things are normal, and ignore the fact that in 36 hours I am getting on a plane, leaving all that I know and love behind for one year.

I am excited, but I am at the part of the process where the emotions come on strong. I haven’t yet cried, but as I went shopping with my mother today, the last time for a year, tears started to well up in my eyes, and I couldn’t look at her. It was ironic that this moment almost brought me to tears, because my mother and I don’t even like shopping. Which is actually why we ended up at the mall the Saturday before I am supposed to fly out of the country – I don’t have any clothes. This is mostly because I like to pretend I have outgrown them, then give them to my friend Courtney, who looks fabulous in everything, but particularly this pair of white pants that she doesn’t wear all that often. Her boyfriend Eric would do well to make a request that he see her in them.

I digress (this happens a lot – see the title of the blog). So I’m at the mall, trying to not to cry, which would just be a total disgrace, because a) I don’t remember the last time I cried in public, and b) I was in yoga pants, a tank top that probably has holes in it, and an oversize sweatshirt with my hair up in the bandana (it’s making a comeback) so I would just be that girl. Not the refined shed-a-little-tear-but-doesn’t-she-look-lovely type, no, the wow, she must really be having a bad day type. The, there she is bawling and she couldn’t even put herself together for the occasion, type. I did not need to impose this sight upon the other patrons of the Bridgewater Commons. I am always looking out for the best interest of the public.

Thankfully the desire to cry evaporated as soon as I left the mall, and I was able to regain my composure enough to make it home and get upstairs. I am now sitting in my room, looking at piles of things that are not supposed to be going into my suitcase, and wondering how this happened, as I cleaned everything up yesterday. I am trying not to panic at the fact that I have about five things I would like to do tomorrow (none which involve packing) and I really don’t have time to get it all done, unless I stay up all night, at which point I will get sick and have a miserable flight. This is what it’s like inside my brain right now. So I am going to put on some music (thank you Grooveshark) straighten up these piles, and approach things from a calm and rational perspective.

Did I mention before that I have a dream world?

The Great ALDO Redemption

Three weeks ago I sent the president of Aldo a rather long letter detailing the unfortunate experience I had with a pair of Aldo boots. A week after the letter was mailed to the Montreal headquarters, I received an email from the director of the Customer Contact Center.

She wanted to talk.

We spoke on the phone yesterday, during which time she expressed her regret at the [previous] lack of customer service, and her desire to restore my trust and loyalty in their brand. I was prepared for this, and told her that a new pair of boots should suffice. I do not believe that my experience with the boot was indicitive of the overall quality of Aldo’s products, but the exception instead of the rule.

I like Aldo shoes. It’s what prompted me to write the letter in the first place. I want to be able to buy their shoes again, and with a $150.00 credit, I soon will. But more than that, I am now satisfied that they stand behind their product, even if it takes sending a letter to the president to make them do so.

Happy Chinese New Year

One of My Finer Moments

I never like the songs that play as the credits roll at the end of a movie. A few examples:  Celine Dion crooning at the end of Titanic about her heart going on and on, except Jack had died, so no one really cared what her heart would do. The Lion King. Excellent movie. All of you Disney naysayers can just go to the land where dream squashers and negative people go to die. But really. Someone tell me how Elton John bleeding emotion for feeling the love tonight has anything to do with jungle animals.

Because it doesn’t.

I could go on, but I’ll spare you, because this isn’t actually about the credit song selections of Hollywood. Well, not really. This is about a couch. A couch that took up residence for two years at 50 Robinson Street, where I lived with my friends during college. A brown leather, extremely comfortable, couch.

It was the nap couch, the homework couch, the movie couch, the late-night chat couch. But more than anything, it was the make out couch. At one point or another, every girl in our house had a boyfriend. With only one single bedroom and five girls, there wasn’t much space for privacy. Which meant that if a couple was going to hang out at our house for the evening, they were going to end up on the couch.

Our house was tiny. The couch was in the living room, right next to the kitchen. The only thing separating one room from the other was a thin sheet of plaster a hundred years old. Even if you had the privacy of the living room, other people were never more than a few feet away. If the lights were out and a movie was on, we all knew what you were doing.

A favorite game of ours was to act like we had never been in that situation when it was someone else on the couch. We would trade knowing glances over breakfast, and whisper in the hallway:

“What time did she come into the room to go to bed last night?”

“I bet she’s so tired today!”

“I can’t believe they stayed up so late again. That’s the third time this week!”

The couch occupant knew that she was a conversation topic, and would act indifferent until it was another couple on the couch, at which point she would assume all innocence and eagerly join in the banter.

The nights when the rest of us were relegated elsewhere, we would usually congregate in the kitchen. Sometimes there would be reservations made for the couch, “I’m having my boyfriend over Friday night.” Nothing more needed to be said; we all understood.

On those nights, the door between the kitchen and the living room became a divide – if you were in the kitchen you were safe, but beyond that door it became enemy territory. We would snicker and tease, and wonder how she could possibly want to kiss him. One such evening, I happened to be in the kitchen doing homework, while the couple that had the most couch time occupied their favorite spot. The only sound coming from behind the door was the song to the credits, playing on what seemed like an endless loop. I fail to believe that anyone enjoys listening to the credit score on repeat, unless they are otherwise engaged.

I needed something to drown out the noise from only a few feet away, so I decided to put on some music.

The obvious selection was to play Marvin Gaye’s Sexual Healing.

Full volume.

On repeat.

I do so hate those songs they play during the credits.

Motivation

The Closet Creeper and a Visit to the Doctor

Sometimes I do not know when to stop talking. Those who know me well would likely say, “Only sometimes, Natalie?”

I’m a very vocal person, which has its pro’s and con’s.

Plus Side:     You always know what I’m thinking.

Down Side:  You always know what I’m thinking.

I have been called blunt, rude, hilarious, and awkward. I have never been referred to as a creeper, but the truth is that sometimes, I am a complete creep.

While it is not fair, one is generally only referred to as a creeper if one is:

• Of the male variety
• Unattractive
• Overly persistent in giving unwanted attention (think: Bar Scene, North America)
• Sporting a penchant for trench coats.

Since I am not:

• A male
• Decide for yourself
• Of the persuasion to hit on women
• The trench coat wearing type…

I usually just get called weird when I go into full on creeper mode. Which is why I propose this alternative description of a creep:

Someone who knows / remembers details about your life when you:
a) Never told them
b) Don’t know them

Unfortunately, my actions have fallen into both of these categories on numerous prior occasions. Still, that’s not quite the crux of it just yet. The real mark of a creeper is:

Even if the other person does not appear to be enjoying themselves / your conversation, you just can’t seem to bring yourself to stop.

Case in point, last night. We all remember The Wart. Long story short, up until last night, I still had the wart. I had begun to think of it as its own entity, my body its host. When the dermatologist appointments proved futile, I began attacking it with the vigor of a reigning monarch against an invading army.

This sucker was going down if I had to cut it out of my foot myself (which I tried, repeatedly). But before I get too sidetracked, I have already devoted an entire post to the wart, and this is actually about my creeper tendencies.

To recap:  me, creeping, wart, failed self-imposed attempts at surgery.

I decided that it was time to go see a podiatrist. Bringing out the big guns. Podiatrists deal strictly with feet (and really, I’m fascinated – how does one feel a calling to this?) No matter. I needed one, and so my mother, ever helpful, led me to Dr. T.

I had actually been to see Dr. T once before, but had failed to save his number. I typed some variation of his very Greek last name into Google, and received quite a few hits in return. God help me, I actually clicked on some of them, and promptly learned way more than I should know about Dr. T, other than that he may harbor a foot fetish. Let me say one more time: Podiatry. Feet, all day long. This one was easy to deduce.

I will justify my actions by stating that I was bored at work. And it’s not like I learned anything inappropriate about Dr. T. I was just able to glean that he and his ex-wife have joint custody of the kids. Two boys.

No big, because in theory, Dr. T would never need to know I know this.

In Reality

Monday, 5:52 PM:  I’m late. I can tell the front desk ladies are non-too-pleased with me. I feign ignorance and smile politely.

5:55:  I am led to a chair and instructed to remove my shoes and socks. My feet are sweaty. Mid winter, socks, boots; don’t pretend like you haven’t been there people.

5:56:  I really should have gotten a pedicure. This is just abominable.

5:57:  I should have removed the errant hairs from my big toe.

6:02:  I walk to the front of the office to retrieve a magazine. Barefoot. See: Wart. Walking around barefoot is probably why I am in this predicament in the first place. The front desk ladies glance at my feet and look at my oddly. Apparently walking around barefoot is not acceptable behavior at the podiatrists.

6:04:  I’ve barely gotten to flip through the pages when the doctor decides to join me. But I do manage to notice the shirtless picture of Tim McGraw, on page 74 in this week’s issue of People. Tim McGraw has weird nipples.

6:05:   I tell the good doctor that I am soon leaving for China, and would like to be departing sans wart. He inspects my right foot, then my left. I don’t think he has a foot fetish. Either that or he hides it very well. Which once more begs the question: why podiatry?

6:06:  BONUS! Turns out that odd little thing I couldn’t identify on my left foot is ANOTHER wart.

6:07:  He calls in the nurse practitioner, and at this point I lose track of time. It is explained to me that we are going to numb, scrape and cauterize my feet. In other words, we are going to stick long needles into them, use a scalpel on them, and burn them. We are going to annihilate these little suckers.

Two needles were procured, at which point I grabbed the arm of the nurse practitioner and implored, “You have children, can I hold your hand?” I’m pretty sure I left childhood behind at least six years ago, but she kindly obliged. Thank God, because it hurts like hell to make sure I don’t feel anything.

My feet sufficiently numbed, the nurse practitioner leaves, and Dr. T whips out a small blow torch.

Time for small talk.

Most normal people would ask… I don’t know what most normal people would ask, because I’m me, and so I asked,

“How are your sons?”

Dr. T never told me that he has sons. I only know this because I read his court documents. It was still fine, he probably didn’t think anything of it, assumed he had told me at another time. But what do I do?

I miss this logical reasoning, and my brain goes straight to:

YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO KNOW HE HAS ANY SONS.

So I follow with the wonderful, “You never told me you have sons, I only know because I typed your name into Google.”

Shut up, Natalie. Just shut up.

This is what I’m thinking. I actually have this thought. But no. Once it starts, I can’t seem to stop, so I continue, “I had to type your name into Google because I hadn’t saved your number. You’d be amazed what you can find out about someone on Google.”

At this point some working part of my brain has caught up to my mouth, and is telling me to abandon my current course of action. Which means I delve into a long list of all the websites you can use to find information on people, and how last week I found myself on Spokeo, which should really be called Spookeo, because it’s so spooky, and how I’m so good at researching people because that’s what I did for two years at my internship during college.

Verbal. Diarrhea.

Then Dr. T says that there are probably documents online that he would rather not be there (i.e. the court document detailing his joint custody) and I try to play this off by saying that I hadn’t seen anything like that and he shouldn’t worry.

He just looked at me, which my brain finally processed as, “Time for a new conversation topic!”

“So are podiatrists real doctors?”

piccsy :: coffee

I just love this, found here.

From America to China, By Way of Spain

The first time I went abroad for longer than two weeks was the summer after my junior year of college, when I was 21. The decision for me to go abroad went something like this (over the phone, no less):

My Father:  We’re thinking of sending you to Spain for the summer. This is your one and only chance to do something like this. Do you want to go, yes or no?

At this point I should mention that when he was 21, my father studied abroad in Spain. My mother is a Spanish teacher. I grew up thinking it was normal to be obsessed with Spanish-speaking cultures. My parents tried in earnest to impart this love for all things Spanish related, but it turns out that an affinity for certain languages is not a genetically inherited trait. To their complete and utter bewilderment, I wasn’t showing much interest in Spanish. Nevertheless, when I was three, my mother labeled everything in my room with its Spanish name on a 3 x 5 note card.

I ripped them down.

The next course of action was to make Spanish FUN. Which meant that in middle school, my best friend Sarah was recruited to take part in weekly Spanish lessons. Sarah had previously lived in Mexico, which was her first advantage. She already spoke Spanish, which was her second. During her pre-med studies in undergrad, she decided to tack it on as another major. Some people you just want to hate. Sarah loved Spanish. Lessons ended up being her and my mother happily chattering away while I sulked.

I spent that summer teaching myself Pig Latin, in which I am proud to announce continued fluency. For some reason, Sarah has repeatedly told me that I should resist the urge to drop this fascinating tidbit when I go out on dates.

Since I was not inclined to learn from my mother, whom, it should be noted, is paid exorbitant fees to teach other people’s children Spanish, my parents decided to hire a private tutor.

THIS CHILD WILL LEARN SPANISH.

I put up such a stink each week, and as the tutor was a smoker, complained that her breath was having adverse effects upon my health. Lessons ended after a few months.

I chose to study Chinese in high school.

So naturally, it made complete sense to send me to Spain for a summer.

You might be thinking, “Why did you say yes?”

My father has managed sales divisions on a global level. He can be rather persuasive. Plus I had this underlying feeling that I HAD to learn Spanish. I will equate this to Jewish kids who attend Hebrew school, but at least in their case it is part of their heritage.

We aren’t Spanish. Not even in the slightest. I believe we are the first Irish-Italian Spanish-speaking family out there. Whenever I had to take standardized tests in school, when asked what languages were spoken in the home, I was always tempted to fill in the bubble next to Spanish.

Sure, I picked up a few words. My parents spoke in Spanish whenever they didn’t want us to understand what was being said. I figured out that helado meant ice cream pretty early on (I also deduced that Santa Clause was a hoax at age four – go me) and I had the disturbing habit of going out on the driveway after it rained and shouting “Gusano!” as I stomped on all the worms.

I tried to like Spanish (sort’ve) but from a young age I have only found it frustrating, the sounds annoying. Ironically I love Spanish music, but that is probably because I grew up listening to such gems as Los Tres Mocededas.

All of this combined so that when my father put forth his proposition, 21 years of Spanish-Jewish guilt and an intense desire to study abroad led me to say yes.

I literally had no further role in the planning process.

A friend of my mother’s who had lived in Spain was consulted, and it was determined that I would go to Valencia. Said friend must have been quite the party lover, because I ended up in one of Europe’s hot spots for weekend getaways. When I told my family after the fact that I would have been better off on a farm milking goats, my brother declared that he could not comprehend how we are possibly related.

He just cannot grasp how I am that cool.

So there I was, goat milking desire unfulfilled, in a town known for its night life, studying a language I had no desire to learn. It was one of the most formative experiences of my life. In retrospect I have tried, and failed, to explain to my father why he should not persist in referring to Spain as, The Disaster.

Though really, having your car impounded while you are 3,000 miles away truly IS a disaster.

Spain was a challenge. For the first time I was away from my family and friends. I was in a new environment where I knew not a soul. My parents, along with deciding where I would go, figured that it would be a waste to send me with any other Americans, which is how I ended up living in a flat with a multitude of European nationals.

Spain was where I grew up. It’s a fairly interesting situation to be in a place where you have endless amounts of time for self-reflection. Spain also gave me my first taste of adventure. Without Spain there would never be China, which is why I found it so fitting to recently find a list I wrote nearly 3 years ago, titled, “What I’ve Learned in Spain.”

It’s long, so I’ll only list a few, but these revelations and the feelings behind them are what I want to remember and take with me to China, by way of Spain:

Travelling is sometimes better in retrospect.

Bright blue eye shadow is fun, but no good for me everyday (this realisation needed to happen the first day I tried bright blue eye shadow , not 2 years later… c’est la vie).

Other people do not have the right to make me feel a way I do not want to, and it is OK to set boundaries. I do not need to adopt other people’s struggles as my own.

There are other young people who share the same faith, values, and morals as I do in the rest of the world.

Be nice to foreigners. Not understanding does not mean they are stupid (really interesting to experience this from the side of the foreigner).

I need 8 hours of sleep a night.

I need a really good alarm clock.

It’s easy to use hindsight and live with regrets, but better to plan accordingly. It’s also OK to realize that maybe not everything you want to get done will happen.

Everybody needs to know they’re wanted by somebody.

Perception and Choice

I found a framed copy of this when I was fifteen. I hung it in my room and keep it where I can see it everyday. I wouldn’t necessarily do all of the things found within, but I appreciate the message.

Get Out Of That Rut

Oscar Wilde said,
“Consistency is the last refuge of
the unimaginative.”
So stop getting up
at 6:05.
Get up at 5:06.
Walk a mile at dawn.
Find a new way
to drive to work.
Switch chores with
your spouse
next Saturday.
Buy a wok.
Study wildflowers.
Stay up alone all night.
Read to the blind.
Start counting
brown-eyed blondes
or blonds.
Subscribe to an
out-of-town paper.
Canoe at midnight.
Don’t write to your
congressman,
take a whole scout
troop to see him.
Learn to speak
Italian.
Teach some kid
the thing you do best.
Listen to two hours of
uninterrupted Mozart.
Take up aerobic dancing.
Leap out of that rut.
Savor life.
Remember, we only
pass this way once.

The Consumer Version of a “Dear John” Letter

Dear Aldo,

I am an aggravated, young female consumer. Furthermore, I want all of my friends to know how annoyed I am with you. I’m like an ex-girlfriend gone rogue, but this is about so much more than being a scorned lover - it’s about shoes.

First, a little about us. Our relationship started back in high school, when I needed to buy shoes for the prom. My particular predicament was that my date and I were exactly the same height. Naturally, we did not want me to appear taller than him, because that would draw attention to the fact that he is short. I had no idea how I was going to solve this predicament, when somewhere between Bloomingdale’s and Macy’s, I stumbled upon your store – a shoe oasis. Salvation from the possibility of having to wear flip-flops to the senior prom. Your store was stocked with beautiful shoes. And there they were. My perfect short date prom shoes.

Flat sole v-strap sandals. Silver, with a rhinestone embellishment. They were $50.00. I considered them well worth it. I wore those shoes until the rhinestone fell out. And that, dear Aldo, is how it began. Our romance. I stopped by every season, eagerly anticipating the new arrivals. I considered Aldo THE PLACE to buy my shoes, a one stop shop. For I had no need to go anywhere else. From you I have purchased numerous pairs of shoes. Black patent leather heels with a little strap across – reminiscent of Mary Janes, but the grown up version. Sexy and girly all at once. I wore those to New Years 2010. $50.00. The brown leather sandals I wore everyday during my semester abroad, summer 2010. $50.00

I have succumbed to your accessories, buying jewelry I don’t need, leg warmers, hats, and two purses. 2009 was the year of the mustard yellow bag. 2012, the striped bag with the front clasp, leather trim. Both cost $50.00.

I have gone into your store “just to look,” to see what I must save up for next. I dismissed the suggestion of a Macy’s line of credit from my mother, because quite frankly, I need nothing else from Macy’s, and your shoes are far superior to the brands they sell. My friends would remark that Aldo shoes are expensive, and I would retort, “They are worth it.” That was, until the incident of The Boot. I bought the boots in the fall of 2011. They are caramel with a side zipper. Leather. The perfect pair of boots. They could be dressed up, or worn for hanging out. Ideal for going apple picking, or to wear on a date. With jeans or a dress. I had to have these boots. $130.00. Perchinski. I even let the sales girl talk me into some leather protector, because these were an investment. I treated them well. I didn’t wear them in the snow. They were guaranteed to last.

Instead, after a few short months, on the tip of one boot, right at the toe, the leather split. Wide open. Where there should have been leather, there was a gaping black hole of fabric. Gaping black holes of fabric do not look good apple picking, nor on a date. Gaping black holes do not look good, period. At first, I did not fret. Instead, in the spring, I went back and bought another pair of shoes. Braided leather sandals with a wooden heel. $35.00 on sale. They too suffered a poor fate after minimal wear. Alas, this is mainly about the boots.

In September, I brought the boots back to my local Aldo store (2074). I explained that I LOVE Aldo shoes, and that I am a very loyal customer. I showed them the boot. I asked if anything could be done. I was assured that yes, it could, and that I would receive a call within one week. I was informed up front that because the boots were from last season, I would have to pay for the repair (a rather stingy policy for such expensive leather boots, I must say). I agreed to pay.

I left my boots and waited. One week passed, no phone call. I waited some more. I tried calling the store. I was put on hold indefinitely. I understand. The store is understaffed and very busy. I continued to wait. I was never called. After six weeks, I went in person to the store. I was told that my boots were not going to be fixed because the store had deemed it too expensive. Too expensive was explained to me as anything over $25.00. Aldo, I believe whether or not a repair was too expensive was my judgment call to make. I was told I could come back in a week to pick up my unrepaired boots. Not to mention it was now well into the fall, and the apples had all fallen to the ground already. I had missed some prime boot wearing opportunities. In case my point is not clear, I was willing to pay for the boot repair, but was told that was not possible, and left your store in mid-October, seriously ticked off. What kind of company does not stand behind their product like that? I have not been back since.

This saddens me. I was in a wedding in December, and the bride wanted us to wear silver shoes. I’m sure that somewhere in your store was the perfect pair. Instead, I had to resort to DSW, and ended up with a pair of heels from the Disney Princess Collection that I will never again wear.

As much as this saddens me, Aldo, it should sadden you even more. We are done. I have wanted to go into your store more than once, have stopped short at the entrance, have put one toe inside, drawn by the seduction of such perfect shoes, only to remember, “This company does not stand behind their product, and I don’t shop here anymore.”

I have recently graduated college. I  am working. I now have money to spare, and I can’t buy your shoes. It’s a matter of principle. I opened a Macy’s credit card, and every time I look at their shoe selection, I want to weep.

Aldo, I am truly sorry, because I believe ours could have been a lifelong love affair.

Regretfully Yours,

Natalie