Monday, January 29, 2007
Early in January I was looking at the website of one of my favorite clubs to see what bands are playing in the coming months, and saw the not-terribly-common name of one of my co-workers. I thought, it must be him. What are the odds that there are two people with that exact name running around the Boston area? Normally I would have been too shy to say anything when I saw him at work, but thanks to an interesting combination of drugs that I was taking to stave off a cold while my guests were visiting, I felt vaguely tipsy and unusually friendly, and when I saw him I asked, "So, are you secretly a rockstar?"
Startled, he said "Um, no, I, uh... don't think so." So I explained that I had seen his name on the website, and he said "oh, yes, that's... probably me, I guess there wouldn't be anyone else with that name playing there this month." In my head I thought that means the answer is YES, you are secretly a rockstar, but I dropped the subject, feeling bad that I had inflicted my new-found cold-medicine-induced sociability on someone apparently even more shy than myself.
But then, at dinner with a friend and former co-worker weeks later, I mentioned my accidental discovery of secret rockstar's secret identity, and my friend said "Oh yeah, he played in _______ and ______," mentioning two rather well-known indie bands* and causing me to nearly choke on my soup (or rather, the vegetables in it; I'm not that incompetent, I swear.) I was astonished not only that he had been in bands that I'd heard of, but that upon questioning he hadn't brought it up. If I had been in his position and someone had asked me about anything remotely music-related, I would have answered YES I AM SECRETLY A ROCKSTAR, I PLAYED ON CONAN ONCE, AND YOU MAY EVEN OWN CDs BY BANDS I HAVE BEEN IN. The fact is that it is just as well that I am not secretly a rockstar, because if I were I'd be extremely annoying, and it's probably just as well that my secret rockstar co-worker has the restraint and perspective to not act like that.
When it comes down to it I am just not very good at being modest. I practice it all the time of course -- I don't draw attention to my own accomplishments, I try not to fish for compliments, and when I do receive compliments I try to accept them in a restrained way and not take it as an opening to talk about myself for half an hour. (When other people do that it annoys me, and it's my goal to not be a hypocrite about such things.) But secretly I always hope that someone will notice my work and say something.
Over the summer, at random, I decided to make myself a dress, and I went to my parents' house and borrowed my mom's sewing machine to do it. When it was done, I wore it to work (not the place I work now.) I hoped desperately that someone would say something about it. Eventually someone said, "I really like your dress, Amanda." "Thank you, I made it myself," I said. Much oohing and aahing ensued, but afterwards I felt silly for having brought it up. For the rest of the day, whenever anyone complimented my dress, I just said thank you.
So maybe being complimented for things does get old after a while. Or maybe I just need a constant low-level dosage all the time, rather than a lot of effusive support all at once. My parents (who rock) got me my own sewing machine for Christmas, and in the weeks following I made myself a skirt. I wore it to work on the same day that I asked my co-worker if he was secretly a rockstar. No one said anything about it. I wore it again a couple weeks later, and still no one remarked on it at all. I wanted to put a sign around my neck saying PLZ ASK ABOUT MY AWESOME SKIRT. On the second Day Of Wearing The Skirt, I confessed to a friend in a neighboring department (a) that I had made the skirt, and (b) that I needed to tell her that mainly because if I didn't the next person who walked by and said "Good morning" to me was going to get "Good morning I made this skirt myself dammit!" as a response. She was sweetly tolerant of my attention whoring, and we laughed a little about the ridiculousness of it. My weaknesses tend to seem okay as long as we can all laugh about them.
It's probably just as well that no one asked me about the skirt, because while making my own clothing may have been impressive in the access services department that I used to work in, the conservation lab is probably full of incredibly crafty people who can make clothing several times as clever as the stuff I can manage. I always felt a bit mediocre next to my college roommates, who made blankets and tote bags while all I could do was a bit of embroidery. Last summer, though, I felt like a superhero when my more-recent-roommates found me mending some pants and were completely amazed at my skills. In that group, I was the go-to person to fix that slightly-damaged dress they found on sale at Macy's. I guess being a rockstar is relative.
*Which I won't mention here due to my master plan to not talk about the specifics of work in my blog.
Startled, he said "Um, no, I, uh... don't think so." So I explained that I had seen his name on the website, and he said "oh, yes, that's... probably me, I guess there wouldn't be anyone else with that name playing there this month." In my head I thought that means the answer is YES, you are secretly a rockstar, but I dropped the subject, feeling bad that I had inflicted my new-found cold-medicine-induced sociability on someone apparently even more shy than myself.
But then, at dinner with a friend and former co-worker weeks later, I mentioned my accidental discovery of secret rockstar's secret identity, and my friend said "Oh yeah, he played in _______ and ______," mentioning two rather well-known indie bands* and causing me to nearly choke on my soup (or rather, the vegetables in it; I'm not that incompetent, I swear.) I was astonished not only that he had been in bands that I'd heard of, but that upon questioning he hadn't brought it up. If I had been in his position and someone had asked me about anything remotely music-related, I would have answered YES I AM SECRETLY A ROCKSTAR, I PLAYED ON CONAN ONCE, AND YOU MAY EVEN OWN CDs BY BANDS I HAVE BEEN IN. The fact is that it is just as well that I am not secretly a rockstar, because if I were I'd be extremely annoying, and it's probably just as well that my secret rockstar co-worker has the restraint and perspective to not act like that.
When it comes down to it I am just not very good at being modest. I practice it all the time of course -- I don't draw attention to my own accomplishments, I try not to fish for compliments, and when I do receive compliments I try to accept them in a restrained way and not take it as an opening to talk about myself for half an hour. (When other people do that it annoys me, and it's my goal to not be a hypocrite about such things.) But secretly I always hope that someone will notice my work and say something.
Over the summer, at random, I decided to make myself a dress, and I went to my parents' house and borrowed my mom's sewing machine to do it. When it was done, I wore it to work (not the place I work now.) I hoped desperately that someone would say something about it. Eventually someone said, "I really like your dress, Amanda." "Thank you, I made it myself," I said. Much oohing and aahing ensued, but afterwards I felt silly for having brought it up. For the rest of the day, whenever anyone complimented my dress, I just said thank you.
So maybe being complimented for things does get old after a while. Or maybe I just need a constant low-level dosage all the time, rather than a lot of effusive support all at once. My parents (who rock) got me my own sewing machine for Christmas, and in the weeks following I made myself a skirt. I wore it to work on the same day that I asked my co-worker if he was secretly a rockstar. No one said anything about it. I wore it again a couple weeks later, and still no one remarked on it at all. I wanted to put a sign around my neck saying PLZ ASK ABOUT MY AWESOME SKIRT. On the second Day Of Wearing The Skirt, I confessed to a friend in a neighboring department (a) that I had made the skirt, and (b) that I needed to tell her that mainly because if I didn't the next person who walked by and said "Good morning" to me was going to get "Good morning I made this skirt myself dammit!" as a response. She was sweetly tolerant of my attention whoring, and we laughed a little about the ridiculousness of it. My weaknesses tend to seem okay as long as we can all laugh about them.
It's probably just as well that no one asked me about the skirt, because while making my own clothing may have been impressive in the access services department that I used to work in, the conservation lab is probably full of incredibly crafty people who can make clothing several times as clever as the stuff I can manage. I always felt a bit mediocre next to my college roommates, who made blankets and tote bags while all I could do was a bit of embroidery. Last summer, though, I felt like a superhero when my more-recent-roommates found me mending some pants and were completely amazed at my skills. In that group, I was the go-to person to fix that slightly-damaged dress they found on sale at Macy's. I guess being a rockstar is relative.
*Which I won't mention here due to my master plan to not talk about the specifics of work in my blog.
Sunday, January 28, 2007
In the midst of an otherwise extremely dull history class in high school, the teacher posed an interesting question. If we were trying to study how an individual or family in our society lived, what one document would be the most useful to us?
Because our teenage-ness had not led us into close contact with many documents more important than, say, report cards, no one came up with any particularly interesting or creative responses. Fortunately the teacher had an answer that some important historian or sociologist had given -- a checkbook register.
A well-kept checkbook register, he reasoned, tells you what is important enough for someone to spend money on. If it's well-annotated, it might even briefly tell you why. It tells you when certain expenses happened, and whether they recurr. You can tell if they were paying a mortgage, how much they talked on the phone, if they habitually gave certain people money for their birthdays, what they did in their leisure time, all from this one little booklet. (They can also tell if you're any good at arithmetic, which is what really worries me when I think about the historical value of my checkbook register.)
Though I don't actually imagine that my personal effects are going to be some kind of treasure trove for historians of the future, to this day I do annotate my checkbook register with a certain fervor, not only to make sure that I recall later what each of these transactions was, but also just in case years and years from now, someone else wants to know. Sometimes I look through it and try to figure out what it says about my life, in the absence of other context. I always have trouble throwing them out, even when I have checked my bank statements against them and resolved any discreptancies (which are mostly due to the aforementioned sloppy arithmetic.) I feel that way, irrationally, about a lot of the paper trail in my life. I write out lists and reminders more clearly than I absolutely need to, and cross things off compulsively as they are done, just in case some space anthropologist from the future reads them and wants to know whether I did actually get around to the vacuuming or not.
Irrational as it may be, it's probably lucky I write my own notes so carefully, because I never remember anything as well as I think I'm going to, and in reality it's the me of the future -- like, two days from now -- who is going to need to decipher these scribbles.
Because our teenage-ness had not led us into close contact with many documents more important than, say, report cards, no one came up with any particularly interesting or creative responses. Fortunately the teacher had an answer that some important historian or sociologist had given -- a checkbook register.
A well-kept checkbook register, he reasoned, tells you what is important enough for someone to spend money on. If it's well-annotated, it might even briefly tell you why. It tells you when certain expenses happened, and whether they recurr. You can tell if they were paying a mortgage, how much they talked on the phone, if they habitually gave certain people money for their birthdays, what they did in their leisure time, all from this one little booklet. (They can also tell if you're any good at arithmetic, which is what really worries me when I think about the historical value of my checkbook register.)
Though I don't actually imagine that my personal effects are going to be some kind of treasure trove for historians of the future, to this day I do annotate my checkbook register with a certain fervor, not only to make sure that I recall later what each of these transactions was, but also just in case years and years from now, someone else wants to know. Sometimes I look through it and try to figure out what it says about my life, in the absence of other context. I always have trouble throwing them out, even when I have checked my bank statements against them and resolved any discreptancies (which are mostly due to the aforementioned sloppy arithmetic.) I feel that way, irrationally, about a lot of the paper trail in my life. I write out lists and reminders more clearly than I absolutely need to, and cross things off compulsively as they are done, just in case some space anthropologist from the future reads them and wants to know whether I did actually get around to the vacuuming or not.
Irrational as it may be, it's probably lucky I write my own notes so carefully, because I never remember anything as well as I think I'm going to, and in reality it's the me of the future -- like, two days from now -- who is going to need to decipher these scribbles.
Sunday, January 14, 2007
It's been a long time since I've had a stats counter on my site, and still longer since I've written a post addressing search requests that bring people here, but ever since I changed the name of the blog to Age-Old Songs, people have found their way here through searches for "songs about old age," so I figure it wouldn't kill me to help those folks out.
I am obviously not a repository of old-age songs by any stretch of the imagination, but one that I'm rather fond of is called "Get Up and Go" by Pete Seeger. The version I'm most familiar with is from the album Arlo Guthrie and Pete Seeger Together in Concert, but as far as I can tell that is nearly impossible to get these days. A better place to find it would be on Pete Seeger's album A Link in the Chain. It's also available as a single from iTunes and Rhapsody. (I think the live version with Arlo Guthrie is much more vibrant, but what can you do.) The lyrics are here, and you can listen to a clip of it here.
Enjoy! Folk music is good for you. It doesn't bite, I promise.
I am obviously not a repository of old-age songs by any stretch of the imagination, but one that I'm rather fond of is called "Get Up and Go" by Pete Seeger. The version I'm most familiar with is from the album Arlo Guthrie and Pete Seeger Together in Concert, but as far as I can tell that is nearly impossible to get these days. A better place to find it would be on Pete Seeger's album A Link in the Chain. It's also available as a single from iTunes and Rhapsody. (I think the live version with Arlo Guthrie is much more vibrant, but what can you do.) The lyrics are here, and you can listen to a clip of it here.
Enjoy! Folk music is good for you. It doesn't bite, I promise.
Saturday, January 13, 2007
Since December I've been meaning to write a post about the MBTA renovations and fare hike. But then several things happened.
1. Alison at Spinstah wrote an excellent post detailing many of the things I was going to say.
2. I discovered (through a comment at Spinstah) Charlie on the MBTA, a blog which takes Boston public transit obsessiveness to a new level (and answers questions that Stenny and I have long pondered, such as why trains are not interchangeable between lines like in other cities. Turns out it's not because they are color-coded to match the line color. They are color-coded because they are non-interchangeable for other, more crucial reasons.) After I saw that I realized I really had nothing more to add to the conversation.
3. I had some friends in town to visit during the first week of the year, just after the fare hike had taken effect, and every time we got on the subway I would start talking about some MBTA-related nonsense without even realizing I was doing it, until one of my friends began giggling as I started another tangent (possibly about how the Hynes/ICA station is in the process of changing its name since the Institute of Contemporary Art moved across town to the waterfront.)
"What?" I asked, perplexed.
"You're talking about the subway again," she said.
"Oh. Sorry."
"It's just that it's not really that interesting."
"Sorry. I forget about that, because around here we talk about transportation all the time." And it's true. There's a column called Starts and Stops that runs regularly in the Globe that is just about transportation. In one of my classes the professor tried to use the new MBTA fare equipment as an example of usability assessment, and the conversation it generated completely took over the class for about 45 minutes, to the point where it had nothing to do with usability anymore. We talk about the T at work, we talk about the T over coffee. I can tell you the stations on the red and green lines that have the screechiest turns going into them (Boylston and Harvard Square) and the ones that are undergoing the most intense renovations (Kenmore, Copley, and Arlington.) The T has already been prominently featured in many blog posts. It is enough to make any out-of-towner want to whap me with a stick.
"Is that because this is the city where they spent decades building a tunnel that doesn't work?" she asked.
"Umm... maybe." Then I restrained myself from going on a long tangent about the Big Dig, because that would have defeated the purpose of this whole conversation.
So for some reason instead of talking about the T, I've written a meta post about talking about the T. Is this an improvement? They do say that the first step is understanding you have a problem. I am clearly too absorbed in public transportation. I must need a hobby. Or a car.
1. Alison at Spinstah wrote an excellent post detailing many of the things I was going to say.
2. I discovered (through a comment at Spinstah) Charlie on the MBTA, a blog which takes Boston public transit obsessiveness to a new level (and answers questions that Stenny and I have long pondered, such as why trains are not interchangeable between lines like in other cities. Turns out it's not because they are color-coded to match the line color. They are color-coded because they are non-interchangeable for other, more crucial reasons.) After I saw that I realized I really had nothing more to add to the conversation.
3. I had some friends in town to visit during the first week of the year, just after the fare hike had taken effect, and every time we got on the subway I would start talking about some MBTA-related nonsense without even realizing I was doing it, until one of my friends began giggling as I started another tangent (possibly about how the Hynes/ICA station is in the process of changing its name since the Institute of Contemporary Art moved across town to the waterfront.)
"What?" I asked, perplexed.
"You're talking about the subway again," she said.
"Oh. Sorry."
"It's just that it's not really that interesting."
"Sorry. I forget about that, because around here we talk about transportation all the time." And it's true. There's a column called Starts and Stops that runs regularly in the Globe that is just about transportation. In one of my classes the professor tried to use the new MBTA fare equipment as an example of usability assessment, and the conversation it generated completely took over the class for about 45 minutes, to the point where it had nothing to do with usability anymore. We talk about the T at work, we talk about the T over coffee. I can tell you the stations on the red and green lines that have the screechiest turns going into them (Boylston and Harvard Square) and the ones that are undergoing the most intense renovations (Kenmore, Copley, and Arlington.) The T has already been prominently featured in many blog posts. It is enough to make any out-of-towner want to whap me with a stick.
"Is that because this is the city where they spent decades building a tunnel that doesn't work?" she asked.
"Umm... maybe." Then I restrained myself from going on a long tangent about the Big Dig, because that would have defeated the purpose of this whole conversation.
So for some reason instead of talking about the T, I've written a meta post about talking about the T. Is this an improvement? They do say that the first step is understanding you have a problem. I am clearly too absorbed in public transportation. I must need a hobby. Or a car.
Thursday, January 4, 2007
I woke up this morning early, feeling strangely peaceful. The sun rose over me and I rolled over to bask in it, tired but alert. The air smelled cool and pure somehow. I sniffed the air for a while, trying to place the scent. It smelled like a new year.
My friends had left the night before, which is why the peacefulness was strange. Normally I would be depressed, and it would take a long time to right myself. That was the last big gathering of the holidays, and now it is just weeks of work and then weeks and weeks of school, just as always.
Today I woke content that people care about me, reviewing in my head the people I've seen and caught up with in the past weeks. People from elementary school, high school, college, and Brookline. It was actually pointed out to me on two separate occasions recently that I sure seem to have a lot of friends, for someone so insecure about friendships. (Part of me thinks it's because I'm so needy -- if I only had a couple friends I would drive them crazy with clinginess.)
For the past year I have been almost completely self-absorbed, just trying to right myself after some emotional issues and survive my first complete year out of college. I've tried to make new connections and hang onto old ones and find my place in this world. I am feeling fairly well now. I think I know what I am doing.
Now I need to get over myself, as they say. In some ways it is hard not to be self-absorbed, living as I do. The voice I hear in my head all day is my own, only briefly interrupted by co-workers, classmates, and roommates. It is easy for the self to dominate my existence, for the little battles in my head to take priority, but it doesn't have to be that way.
This year I would like my life to be a haven, for myself and for my friends. I am going to finish school and start a full-time job in the middle of this year. I am going to get settled down, on some level. The people I adore have always impressed me with their inner peace and welcoming warmth. I know I can't completely change who I am and I will never be totally even-keeled, but perhaps I can channel this anger, this fire into something softer but more sure. I am tired of being skittish.
I have always wondered how much people can fundamentally change, because I have always wanted to change the sort of person I am. At times it has seemed impossible, but little things do change. I know that I may always react the same way on the inside, but I can adjust my external response. I also know now that every time I meet someone I have another chance to be a better person. This is something that gets lost when you spend your whole life going to school in one medium-sized town, and then another four years going to a really small college. At some point you realize you're out of chances. Everybody knows you and has judged you already.
I am ready to change some little things now. I am ready to be warmer and more giving, and to believe in myself and in this life. I've got a lot going for me.
(I also know that I'm not going to feel this way every day, but I'm ready to deal with that too.)
My friends had left the night before, which is why the peacefulness was strange. Normally I would be depressed, and it would take a long time to right myself. That was the last big gathering of the holidays, and now it is just weeks of work and then weeks and weeks of school, just as always.
Today I woke content that people care about me, reviewing in my head the people I've seen and caught up with in the past weeks. People from elementary school, high school, college, and Brookline. It was actually pointed out to me on two separate occasions recently that I sure seem to have a lot of friends, for someone so insecure about friendships. (Part of me thinks it's because I'm so needy -- if I only had a couple friends I would drive them crazy with clinginess.)
For the past year I have been almost completely self-absorbed, just trying to right myself after some emotional issues and survive my first complete year out of college. I've tried to make new connections and hang onto old ones and find my place in this world. I am feeling fairly well now. I think I know what I am doing.
Now I need to get over myself, as they say. In some ways it is hard not to be self-absorbed, living as I do. The voice I hear in my head all day is my own, only briefly interrupted by co-workers, classmates, and roommates. It is easy for the self to dominate my existence, for the little battles in my head to take priority, but it doesn't have to be that way.
This year I would like my life to be a haven, for myself and for my friends. I am going to finish school and start a full-time job in the middle of this year. I am going to get settled down, on some level. The people I adore have always impressed me with their inner peace and welcoming warmth. I know I can't completely change who I am and I will never be totally even-keeled, but perhaps I can channel this anger, this fire into something softer but more sure. I am tired of being skittish.
I have always wondered how much people can fundamentally change, because I have always wanted to change the sort of person I am. At times it has seemed impossible, but little things do change. I know that I may always react the same way on the inside, but I can adjust my external response. I also know now that every time I meet someone I have another chance to be a better person. This is something that gets lost when you spend your whole life going to school in one medium-sized town, and then another four years going to a really small college. At some point you realize you're out of chances. Everybody knows you and has judged you already.
I am ready to change some little things now. I am ready to be warmer and more giving, and to believe in myself and in this life. I've got a lot going for me.
(I also know that I'm not going to feel this way every day, but I'm ready to deal with that too.)