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Socially Awkward

2/22/2019

I'm pretty sure I didn't used to be this socially awkward. There was a time in my twenties, even into my thirties, when I could converse with anyone with ease. My friends thought I was funny (if a little quirky), and there were many times I was invited to parties and events simply to provide social lubricant to the situation.

Somewhere in my forties, this changed. There's no exact moment that I can point at and say, "There it is. That's when I stopped being delightful in the company of others." It just happened over time; my circle of friends got smaller and smaller as I learned more and more whom I could trust and whom I truly enjoyed spending time with; I stopped caring so much about hurting other people's feelings by turning down invitations.

Lately, though, I've taken this to the extreme. Oh, sure, circumstances dictated it, but I became a full-on hermit. Until I got a text from a friend and former coworker inviting me out for pizza. Several other former coworkers would be there. Did I want to go?

Ugh. People, I thought, except that original former coworker, the one doing the inviting, is someone I really like. How much did I like her? I asked myself. Enough to put on pants and go out in public?

Then I thought back to the last time I'd socialized with anyone outside of family. It was December. Early December, actually. That's pretty bad, I realized. Even shut-ins visited with their caregivers a few times a week. I should go. So I did.

When I arrived at the restaurant, only a few other people were there. I was able to hug people appropriately and say hello and ask how things were going. But over the next half hour, more and more coworkers joined us. I panicked. What do I say? What do I do? Can they tell I haven't had a non-family conversation since December?

"How have you been?" the young lady to my left said. She seemed happy to see me, and I remembered her as a nice girl, who always greeted me cheerfully in the mornings when we worked together.

How had I been? There were so many ways to answer that! Be positive, I thought. Say something upbeat. Maybe tell her the story about how Jason found a free treadmill online, but when he brought it home, it wouldn't fit through the basement door. That's funny, right? How he had to bring it in through the front door, and now we can't get it downstairs where the exercise bike lives? Yes, I could go with that. I turned to her and smiled. "I have a treadmill in my living room!" I blurted out.

She looked at me for a moment. I recognized that look immediately. It's the one I would sometimes give my mother when I was younger: slightly furrowed brow to signify concern, combined with a polite and somewhat forced smile. The look that said, You are a crazy lady.

Dear lord. I am a crazy lady.

Serves me right for socializing.

Ideas, Man

2/15/2019

Writers are often asked, “Where do you get your ideas?” This is one aspect of writing I struggle with all the time. Once I have an idea, I’m pretty good at running with it and getting it down on the page, but it's being struck with that idea to begin with that’s the problem.

Every writer is different. For example, my best writing friend gets ideas for stories every five minutes. He tries to write those ideas down or speak them into an audio file as they come to him, but he’s already exceeded the memory capacity on three different phones just from those idea audio files. His issue is getting them all written. He’s great about offering me some of his ideas to use, because he knows he’ll simply never have enough time to get all those stories written. The problem is, I always feel bad, like I should’ve come up with the idea myself instead of borrowing one of his. And though “Eat Your Vegetables,” one of my short stories in Insanity Tales III, is sparked off of one of Rob’s ideas, it is absolutely my story, and nothing like the carnivorous garden tale he would’ve written.

(I’m telling you all this for a reason. Bear with me.)

The past month or so, I’ve been working on Longo Looks at . . . GARDENING. It’s the next in line in my series of chapbooks taken from past columns and blog posts I’ve written over the past decade. It should practically write itself. All I need to do is shape and mold it, maybe stitch it together with introductory paragraphs and transition sentences. Sounds easy, right?

Except it’s not. I’ve been struggling with it for a couple of reasons. One, it’s not gardening season yet, which is kind of the point, because I was hoping to release it for gardening season. But because we’re still firmly in winter, I’m in no mood to think about the work it’s going to take to get the pepper plants percolating this spring.

The other reason is because I had something kind of amazing happen the other day. I was in the kitchen, pouring my third cup of coffee of the morning, when an idea struck me. I grabbed a paper towel and a pen and took notes. In thirty seconds, I had the crude outline of a plot for a novel. I knew who four of the characters would be, and a possible fifth, and I knew when and where it should be set. I wasn’t entirely clear on what the ending would be—I’ll have to spitball ideas with Rob on that—but I had a solid start sketched out on that coffee-stained Bounty sheet. I knew I could have fun with the characters, and I was eager to get started.

I sat back down in front of my laptop. Longo Looks at GARDENING was already open, waiting for me to finish crafting it.

I looked longingly at my paper towel notes. Then back at the computer screen.

I had to finish this book.

But I really wanted to work on this other thing.

I’ve mentioned to Rob several times how jealous I am of his ability to generate ideas at the drop of a hat. He’s often told me how frustrating it is, because the ideas come at the most inopportune times, and at any given moment he’ll be working on six different stories, and not finishing five of them.

My point is, I get it now—at least a little bit. See, I’m the type of person who cannot leave something unfinished—certainly not the gardening book I’d promised my aunt would be ready this spring. So I’m still plugging away at that one, but my mind is still grinding its gears thinking about the other.

All I need is a little more writing time in the day. How hard could that be?

They say sleep is overrated anyway.

Friday

2/8/2019

Here we are again on a Friday, and yet again, I have zero blog post ideas. What I do have is this old post, and here's the thing: it's been almost four years since this one ran, and there's still no cure for being geographically challenged.

Geographically Challenged

I’d like to talk today about a disability that nobody speaks of—yet if we did, we’d probably find that one in four people suffer from it and I completely made up that number. I think it’s important to talk about this affliction, because those that have it struggle with it every day. I also think it’s time that I confess to having the disorder myself. I will suffer in silence no more: like many of you, I, too, am geographically challenged.

I’m not talking about occasionally turning left when you should’ve turned right. What I’m referring to is the knack for getting lost every single time one pulls out of the driveway. (I once got lost in my driveway.) You people with a natural sense of true north have no idea what I mean, I’m sure. Ever notice those friends who are mostly fabulous at Trivial Pursuit, except that they never seem to be able to capture that coveted blue pie piece? Geographically challenged. The blue pie piece represents geography, and remains frustratingly elusive to us.

It’s a problem with many repercussions. When socializing, I cannot contribute to any conversation that references a street in town. “You know, down on Marigold Street. Just past the consignment shop.” No. I don’t know, and I can’t find it, even if I’ve accidentally stumbled across that consignment shop four times in the past. If I have to meet someone somewhere new, I’ll ask them to verify the address six or seventeen times, which I’ll admit is pointless, because I still won’t make it. The phrase “I think I’ve been lost here before” is a common one in my car, and completely truthful. I’ve been lost on many, many roads along the Eastern Seaboard. I like to think of myself as an accidental tourist.

I once pulled out of a parking lot and questioned which side of the road we drive on here in the States. I should point out that I’ve never traveled to any country where they drive on the other side of the road. There was no logical reason why I shouldn’t have instinctively known to stay to the right of the double yellow lines. But for a moment, I got myself turned around. If not for the angry pedestrian walking his rather large, rather rabid-looking St. Bernard that I almost hit, I’d probably still be driving on the wrong side. (The dog owner also shouted some colorful new epithets that I’ve since stolen and made my own, so bonus.)

Please, you directionally savvy people, don’t dismiss the geographically challenged with “get a GPS” or “use Google Maps.” Both of these tools, we can assure you, are imperfect. Because we are so dependent on them, we follow their instructions to the letter. “Turn left in 400 feet.” Exactly 400 feet later, which is incidentally 8 feet after the stoplight, we’ll turn left, and find ourselves on the lawn of a golf course being attacked by geese. And make one little typo (Windsor, CT, instead of Windsor Locks, CT, is a really easy one to make) and our golf-course goose is cooked.

On behalf of the geographically challenged, I’d like to offer a blanket apology. We’re not making it to your party, or book club, or wedding. We’re undoubtedly stuck on the George Washington Bridge, wondering why Newport is so congested.

What're You Hiding Under There?

2/1/2019

I recently bought new underwear.

Now before you get all nervous (or excited, for the piggos out there), this isn’t one of those types of blogs. I’m not going to describe snippets of lace or see-through mesh numbers. No, I bought these panties from Hanes, because I’m old and I care less about looking sexy these days, and more about not giving myself a wedgie when I sit down.

So back to my underwear shopping. I bought them online, and I’ll admit, I had to sort of guess what size to get. You see, the website did provide a size chart, but it went by waist and hip size in inches. I find these types of charts not helpful at all, mostly because they never have a size that correlates with both my waist and hips. (“Impossible,” the Hanes representative said when I called for advice and gave my measurements. I had to assure her it was not: I’d inherited my proportions from my mother, who inherited hers from my grandmother. I also told the Hanes representative that while Grandma would’ve had some sort of sassy comeback to the impossible remark, I was simply going to hang up now and maybe give my phone the middle finger.)

I guessed at my size and waited for my cute new undies to come in the mail.

When they arrived, the first thing I noticed was that the size chart on the package of underwear itself actually included a third column, one labeled “pant size” (For example, if you wear a size 10–12, you’d buy a 7 in Hanesland.) This one little column would’ve been extremely helpful had Hanes made it available on their website, or if the judgy “That’s impossible” customer service rep had bothered to mention it before I’d hung up on her.

I’d bought the wrong size. By a long shot. I held up my size 9 Hanes and sighed. I could return them and order a smaller size, but that sounded like a lot of work, plus possibly I’d have to use printer ink to print out a return label. Have you seen the price of printer ink lately? The return label would cost more than the underwear!

I chose option two, which was to call the Hanes help line, put them on speakerphone while the representative asked, “Hello? Hello? Is anyone there?”, and flip the phone the double bird, which everyone knows is twice as bad as just one middle finger. Then I sat down and got to work. In less than two weeks, I was able to eat my way up to a Hanes size nine, which was no easy feat, let me assure you. But I did it, and in record time, too.

I like to think Grandma would’ve been proud.

Socially Awkward

Ideas, Man

Friday

What're You Hiding Under There?

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