That’s America to Me.

On May 1st, I watched a baseball game for the first time.

No seriously – prior to that, I had never seen a baseball game, on TV or live.  I’m an uncultured swine – I know.  I chalked it up to being Australian, and usually would quip, “Oh so you spend your weekends watching cricket matches do you?”  Anyway, feeling that the time had come that I assimilate to the culture entirely, Steph took me to a baseball game.  Yankee stadium is great – the smells, the sounds, the ambiance of the whole thing is really spectacular.  I ate a hot dog in the stands of Yankee stadium and proclaimed, “Now this is America.” 

This weekend, I’m going camping for the first time with Sean, Jennand Alex.  Sean and Alex were both boy-scouts, Jenn was a girl scout (although, it’s a poorly kept secret that she was only in it for the cookies) and I was neither.  I was Australian.  However, I expect to eat smores, hot dogs and most likely will drink some (not so) delicious domestic beer this weekend.

I feel so American.  So American in fact, that I’m thinking I should be awarded honorary American citizenship.  There are  lots of things I’m yet to do that I think would qualify me for this imaginary honor I’ve just created, but I’ve also already done quite a few.  I’ve made a list.  An asterisk (one of these*) indicates that I’ve been there / done that.

• Go to prom *
• Go to college * 
• Carve a pumpkin
• Go trick or treating (hard to pull off as a 5′8″ 22 year old.  We’ll see)
• See fireworks on the 4th of July *
• See a parade (I know, I know…)
• Make an apple pie*
• Eat a corn dog (I’m a little cautious)
• Go to a drive-in movie theater
• Make / Drink egg nog
• Go to an awkward, uproarious thanksgiving dinner
• Eat an NYC hot dog*
• Eat smores made by a campfire

That’s all I’ve got so far.  I know I’m forgetting some.  So really, suggest something. I hope to check them all off once I’ve finalized the list.  Again, offer your suggestions, and if you’d like to accompany / supervise my Americanization with your watchful American eyes, let me know. 

“Aren’t you cold?”

The web development department at work is all men.  All men and one woman. 

Me.

I love where I work.  I enjoy what I do, I love the boys, we have fun and we work very well together.  But they’re always warm, and I’m always cold. 

Nine times out of ten, I don’t say anything and just bring a sweater in with me.  There’s more of them than me.  It’s fine. “NBD” even.  This Friday however, maybe on account of the rain – I was freezing.  There were ceiling fans a-blowing, doors open and the boys were in their short sleeved shirts.  Meanwhile, I was wearing a long sleeved shirt, cordourys AND my jacket.  

Eventually, I asked my supervisor an emphatic, “Aren’t you cold?” and he took care of it for me.  But later, It got me wondering – why does this happen?  Why are women seemingly always colder than men? 

Cold feet, cold hands, blankets and sweatshirts and socks…that’s how we roll. 

Why? I have no idea.

So, I did some research. 

There seems to be some debate, but from what I can gather – these are the most widely accepted reasons:

-Women have less volume in relation to the surface area of their skin, and therefore shed heat quicker than men.   And, the amount of dense muscle an individual has helps the body regulate temperature more efficiently.   

- Men have more muscle mass, muscles have more blood vessels, more blood means more heat. 

-Women have a higher vasoconstriction threshold temperature. (huh?)

I don’t know why I do these things.  Remember when I got a paper cut at work and it become a good 20 minute research project?  What a nerd.  Anyway, so that’s why I’m cold at work.  Not that I’m complaining – really.  I kind of like bundling up anyway.  And if it’s between bundling up or bulking up 50 pounds to accumulate more dense muscle or whatever, I’ll stick with the sweater. 

May 16th, 6:37pm

I was on the phone with a friend, talking about something completely different I wanted to write on, then realized I was paying $4.05 for gas.  “This is absurd!”

No bueno, my friends. 

Paradise by The Monitor Light

The amount of time I spend at a computer is truly absurd.  Not only have I replaced television with blogs, social networking, and several other important, educational pursuits – but all non-leisurely aspects of my life revolve around computers too.

I’m a web copy writer. I spend my work days sitting at a computer writing and researching. (Breaks are spent starring at the back of Sean’s head.)

I’m a student.  An advertising student to boot.  I spend an awful lot of time making ads, writing copy, revising ads, revising copy…And, it’s finals week (!)  I have lots of projects / portfolios I’m working on.  All of which are being done with the use of computers.  Specifically, the computers found in the computer lab on campus - which is commonly (and somewhat affectionately) refered to as being my “home away from home.”

Seriously.  There are jokes between my classmates and I that we’re setting up mailing addresses in the computer lab.  Bringing sleeping bags. Getting land-lines installed.  Pitching tents… 

This has gotta stop.

I think it’s entirely possible that, at this rate, I’ll go blind soon.  And most likely have terrible arthritis in my fingers from all this typing. 

On the plus side,  I just found out that I can type 105 words per minute.  Try beat me.

 

…back to work

October ‘92. For Kate.

When I was younger, the neighborhood kids and I would walk home from school, drop the backpacks, grab something to eat, and then hop on our wheels.  The six of us, and a million mosquitos would play for hours in the warm Australian afternoons until the streetlight at the top of the cul-de-sac flicked on – the universal symbol that it was time to go home.   

Being one of the youngest, and far from one of the coolest neighborhood kids, I was the last one to learn how to ride a bike.  I got my first bike in October of 1992, and it was a hand-me-down from my neighbor, Kate.  Kate was (and still is) five years older than me, which made her automatically the coolest person in the world.  The pre-loved bike was pink, had a fully functional straw basket on the front handlebars, a white seat, and a bell that didn’t work. 

My Dad put the white training wheels on the back and after a few weeks of wobbling around the backyard, they were ready to come off.  Because she was five years older and infinitely cooler, Kate offered to teach me how to ride. 

I was a very cautious child – probably because I was always hurting myself or getting hurt – which of course didn’t make me any cooler, but profoundly effected my bike riding lessons.  I wanted to avoid any momentum, so Kate taught me how to ride on a flat-section of our neighbors’ lawn, and held the back of my seat as I’d nervously shake and wobble through the grass.   

Here is an illustrated map of the street that I got from Google (<3) and edited to illustrate my story more accurately.

 

The hours came and went.  And it turned into days of Kate walking along next to me, one hand on the handlebar, and one hand on the back of my seat.  After this went on for a while, eventually Kate let go of the handle bar.  I could steer myself, thank you very much.  A while later, Kate had to quicken her walking pace to a slight jog – still holding the back of the seat.  After what seemed like an eternity of “Can I let go now?” “NO! ONE MORE TIME!” Kate was getting frustrated.  It’s honestly a huge credit to her that she didn’t intentionally push me over and give up.  I would have.

Kate needed me to feel confident that I could do it, so one day she asked the other neighborhood kids (all of whom were, without a doubt, much cooler than six year old “skinny-minnie”) to watch and see how I had progressed.  Everyone came out to watch.  My big brother, Donna, Brett, Danny, Mandy…I was a painfully shy and sensitive child, so this was a very big deal.  I wouldn’t say that I felt “cool” at that point in time, but I was definitely feeling confident that very soon, I’d be able to ride my bike with the rest of them. 

With her hand on the back of my seat, we started slowly as usual, then the adrenaline took over and I pushed the bike hard…well, as hard as my skinny legs could push, and I took off.  For the first time, Kate had to actually run to keep her hand on the seat – I felt the cool wind blowing wisps of hair around my face as I zoomed down the street, and I could hear the dull roar of everyone cheering beneath the pounding of my heart, swelled with pride. Kate’s smiling face in my peripheral vision, her laughter in my ear, and our dust training behind. 

When I stopped, my heart was racing in a delicious mix of adrenaline and excitement as everyone was clapping and cheering for me. “You did it, Minnie! You did it!”  Finally.  I had been accepted as one of the bike-riding cool-kids.  I felt so encouraged and empowered, I told Kate, “Ok, I’m ready to try without you holding me now.”

“But Minnie…I wasn’t holding on that time.”

 I’m a little unsure of what happened next.  But from what I can piece together: the pink bike hit the floor with a thud.  The smile disappeared as the blood drained from my face.  I had been betrayed.  I went from being so happy I was on the brink of tears, to feeling vulnerable, exposed and hoodwinked.  Those skinny legs that had pumped those pedals so fiercely now carried me up the street, tears streaming down my face.  How could this have happened? I wasn’t ready.  How could she do that to me? 

 I hate her.

 I burst into the house, still in hysterics, ran into my room and wished so hard that it had a lock.  Hiding under the covers, with my heart pounding angrily in my chest, I could overhear Mum and Kate downstairs.

 “What happened?!”
”She rode her bike and I wasn’t holding her.”
”…I don’t understand, why is she crying?”

 Weeks went by and I disappeared into my books again.  I resumed my position as Ernie’s little sister who reads and cries all day. 

 I’m not sure what happened, but I know eventually I got over the traumatic events of that warm day in October of ‘92, and began riding my bike with the cool kids.    

 I recently got back in touch with Kate, and thanked her for teaching me the ways of the road.  I don’t think she really realizes firstly, how traumatic it was when I was six, and secondly, how ultimately thankful I am for it today.  Anyone who knew me as a kid knows I would NEVER have done it willingly and I needed to be pushed. 

It taught six year old skinny Minnie that you’ve got to get yourself out of your comfort zone if you want to do something special.  Even if you’re scared, vulnerable and uncertain of what’s going to happen – you can’t get too comfortable with the hand on the back of your seat or you’ll never change.  Twenty two year old not-quite-as-skinny Mindy forgot that, and the hand of the back of my seat had been there for a long time.

My sincerest thanks to Kate for teaching me in ‘92. 

(And thanks to Kara for reminding me today.)

 

Minnie.