Young at Heart

I find that when it comes to listening to music, playing video games, or watching TV I tend to always rely on the old favorites, rather than taking a risk on new experiences.  One of the benefits of this, at least where TV is concerned, is that I get to grow with the shows and let them affect me in different ways.  Lately, I've been watching a lot of Ally McBeal.  

I used to watch this show every week with my Dad when I was in high school.  At 17, the characters (who are all nearing 30) embodied a lifestyle I didn't quite understand, although I knew I wanted to get there someday.  I liked the show mostly for it's utter ridiculousness.  The fantastical nature of Ally's hallucinations and Peter McNicol's wacky hijinks were (and still are) highly entertaining.  However, when Ally struggled with her birthdays and continuously inspected her face for wrinkles I could not at all relate.  Funny, but as a teenager it made perfect sense that she would be getting wrinkles.  I mean, 30 was OLD.  

Well, I just watched that episode again, the 30th birthday episode, and the reality of my age started to really set in.  I find that, in a way, I'm still watching the show from that 17 year old's perspective; Ally still looks old to me.  But she shouldn't anymore.  I am the age that she is in the show.  I'm turning 29!  I'm the same age that she was in the first season, and every episode when she complains about her age I now feel like David E. Kelley (the show's creator) is launching mini attacks on me and all of my friends.  How dare he make us seem like neurotic, age and beauty-obsessed, power-hungry wenches! 

So, yes, I'm turning 29 on Thursday.  And you know what?  I'm not inspecting my face for creases.  I'm not obsessed with men, weight, power, fashion, or money.  I feel younger than I did when I was 25 (God, I felt old and wise at 25), and I feel older than I did at 17.  It used to seem like life was speeding along, but since moving out here it seems like everything has somehow slowed down.  Maybe I slowed down and learned to appreciate everything more; I don't know.  It feels weird to watch my favorite shows and finally be the age of the characters in them, but it's also oddly comforting.  My life isn't dramatic. It's not understated either. It's just mine.  I don't need to go to my high school reunion to see how I stacked up on all of the meaningless, superficial scales.  I've succeeded.  I'm living my dream, and I found it in my own timeline.

When I was 17, I used to say that I couldn't wait until I was 30 because by 30 I would have it all figured out.  I've got to say, I don't think I was wrong at all.  Now I can't wait until I'm 50.  The other day I was talking to someone who told me this was the end of my twenties, and the last time I'd be able to admit my true age out loud. Trust me, I wanted to reach my hand through the phone and pop his head right off of his neck. I mean seriously, dude?!  SERIOUSLY?! How rude! Contrary to what society might think, I actually really love getting older and watching everyone around me do the same.  We're all so lucky to have every year that we get.  I've already outlived some of the people I've known and loved, and I've got a lot of time left until I reach my goal of 105.  Twenty nine is going to be awesome!

Make Me Lose Control

Remember when songs used to tell a story?  I can't even remember the last time I heard a new song on the radio that resembled anything more than a string of redundant, overly-simple phrases created purely for the purpose of pushing record sales and selling products. Although, to be fair, I suppose some songwriters still strive to weave some sort of narrative for their audience.  Country singers have done a fairly good job of continuing to tell tales, although I don't know what sort of moral I'm supposed to draw from "Honky Tonk Badonkadonk." 

People have always told me that I'm an 'old soul', that I have 'grandma taste', and/or that I am clearly biased against any song written after 1988. These people are not wrong. In fact, if you've ever asked yourself, "why does my good friend, Lindsey, insist on listening to nothing but oldies and classic rock?" here's your chance to learn the answer.  It isn't glamorous.  Actually, I've already completely given it away up there at the start of the intro.  You see, I like stories, and modern music just doesn't tug at my heart strings the way the golden oldies do.

For example, take one of my all-time favorite songs, "Band of Gold." At first glance it really just sounds like a breakup song.  Boy left girl; girl sings a doo-wop number about it.  Wrong!  Listen to it again.  Go ahead, you know you want to.



This song is actually about a woman who, on her honeymoon, chickens out of having sex with her new husband.  He gets angry and leaves the room, and she spends the rest of the night hoping that he'll come back in and give her another chance.  "Band of Gold" provides one of the most fantastic juxtapositions in musical history.  Despite the upbeat, happy nature of the melody, the meaning behind the lyrics is intense and raw.  Brilliant!

Remember Bon Jovi?  Of course you do!  Who doesn't love to scream "Living on a Prayer" at the top of their lungs while driving down the interstate with a car full of good friends?  I know I sure do.  If you're with me then you definitely remember the opening lyrics.  We all know poor Tommy so well, don't we?  And Gina, who dreams of running away?  Yep, in a way we're all "halfway there" right with the characters, clinging to our youth while simultaneously trying to survive in the real world.

Yeah, I love "Slippery When Wet" as much as the next 45 year old, but my heart has always truly belonged to the 70s folk rock gods and goddesses.  Every year when the radio station officially switches to nothing but holiday music, my heart skips a beat in anticipation of Dan Fogelberg's "Same Old Lang Syne." I'm not sure why they reserve it exclusively for the holiday mix.  If I had my way, Dan would be welcome on public broadcast 365 days a year.  The lyrics of this song are so honest and relatable, never mind that it was based entirely on a true story. Every time I hear it I feel like I'm right there with them, in the frozen food aisle, fumbling at the checkout stand, awkwardly conversing in the car, and finally saying goodnight.  Don't get me wrong, all of Fogelberg's songs are written as stories, but this one really hits at something in me.  I'm not sure why. [Forgive me, but these YouTube fan compilations crack me up.  Sorry I couldn't find a better video.]



I'm sure by now you get the point, and you're thinking to yourself "oh my gosh, Lindsey, are you still talking about this?  And why am I even still reading?" Well, I'll tell you why. It's because you miss the stories, too.  We all miss the good old days when music wasn't weird for weird's sake, or created specifically to address some gap in the MTV culture, or mindlessly repetitive to the point where you can't decide whether to keep singing along to it or to bash your car stereo in with a hammer.  I know this feeling all too well.  Every time Chris and I are in the grocery store and I'm singing every lyric to every awful new song (even though I've never heard most of them before), he stares at me with daggers in his eyes and contempt in his heart (don't worry, he's Hardcore). I can't blame him; I kind of hate that I do it, too, but I can't help it.  Music is made to be easy, accessible, and repetitive these days.  You only have to hear a song twice to think it's probably your favorite.  Think about it in terms of cognitive dissonance: "I know all the words to this song!  Wait, why do I know all of the words to this song?  It must be because I really like it!"

This is not meant to be a justification of my taste in music, or a plea for any of you to join me on the 'Dark Side' of grandma-tasticness. Think of this post more like a call to arms for all of the modern musicians and up-and-comers in the world (because clearly they all read my blog) to honor the true purpose of music, to tell stories that will touch our hearts and inspire our souls.  Like this delightfully sad number, originally performed by Fifth Dimension and revived for episode 16 of Glee Season 1. Until next time, toodle-oo!

You've Got a Friend in Me

I was talking to one of my friends about a week ago, maybe two. He's one of the few friends I've been close to for many moons (since 1997ish), and he's one of those people who I can go months, even years (although that's not preferable), without talking to and yet we're still somehow able to pick up right where we left off.  He and I used to half-joke that we had a psychic connection.  Anytime he had a fight with his girlfriend I would get a stomach ache no matter where I was, and when I was feeling particularly down he would "coincidentally" decide to call me right when I hit rock bottom. When I moved to New York with my ex, this friend was my rock.  He was my first call whenever I felt homesick or things weren't going well with my then-guy.  When the two of us got married to our respective spouses our phone calls became less frequent, our psychic connection became a little fuzzy, but somewhere deep down we've always known that we had each other's backs.

Anyway, like I said before, I was talking to him a bit ago and he was feeling particularly melancholic, as was I.  He had been reading a lot of Rumi while his lovely wife was out of town, and he had done a little soul-searching.  He brought up the concept of friends with a capital "F". A Friend, as he defined it, is someone who you can count on at any point in your life, someone who you don't have to see or talk to to know they're there, maybe even someone who would be willing to hop on a plane at the drop of a hat if you needed them (and vice versa).  He said he only had a few people who qualified as Friends, of which I was one, and it got me thinking about how many Friends I might have.

I've always been someone who gathered acquaintances, or so I thought; although, when I moved to Portland I quickly grew tired of my ever growing pile of one-night-stand-friends and found myself craving a solid connection.  Nevertheless, I fully realize that I am a hard person to get to know.  I don't let my guard down easily, not even to those I'm closest to, and as a result I don't know that I've gathered many Friends with a capital "F". Maybe we're not supposed to, I don't know.  I find, upon reflection, that most of my Friends are people I've grown up with.  I don't mean that in the sense that I've known them for 10 years and keep in "close" contact with them through Facebook. I mean the people that I've known since high school and New York who I've literally grown with; the people who have seen me change over the years and know me well enough to be able to tell.  Even though I only have maybe, maybe ten Friends, I take great comfort in knowing that I'm fortunate enough to have this second family of sorts, even if they don't know each other at all.  They all know me, and that's not for nothing.

Of course, this entire post may just be born out of the fact that I'm about to turn 29 and start a PhD program.  Don't get me wrong, I've always loved aging, but I find that part of the natural progression of life is the weeding out of old friends, for whatever reasons, to make room for new life situations and goals. For as many people who are willing to watch you grow and change, there are always a few who can't handle or understand your need to make the necessary transitions, or, worse, who purposefully or inadvertently hold you back.  I guess reflecting on my conversation with my Friend has inspired me to think about not only how many people I have in my life, but also those I've left behind.  It's a sad, yet necessary process, not that any justification can completely resolve this truth in my mind.  I'll just chock it up by saying life sure is funny sometimes...

Getting to Know You

Today I took the Myers-Briggs Personality Inventory questionnaire for kicks, and apparently I am classified as having an ESTP personality type. I found a description of what this means on the Perdue University webpage, and it fits so well I thought I would share it with all of you! I even had Christopher read through it, just to be sure I wasn't falsely trusting in the characterization, and he gave it a big thumbs up. Here you go! Oh, and if you happen to take the test after reading this, please let me know what your results were; it'll be like a fun game!

ESTP Personality

ESTP are men and women of action. When someone of this personality is present, things begin to happen. The lights come on, the music plays, and the game begins. And a game it is for the ESTP, the outstanding entrepreneur, the international diplomat, the conciliator, and the negotiator par excellence. Approximately 13 percent of the general population are of this extraverted, sensing, thinking, and perceiving type. And if only one adjective could be used to describe ESTPs – resourceful – would be an apt choice.

Life is never dull around ESTPs. Their attractive, friendly style has a theatrical flourish which makes even the most routine, mundane event seem exciting. ESTPs usually known the location of the best restaurants, and headwaiters are likely to call them by name. ESTPs are socially sophisticated, suave, and urbane and are master manipulators of the external environment.

ESTPs are uncanny at observing people’s motivations, somehow hypersensitive to minimal nonverbal cues, which other types might miss. And they are masters at using these observations to “sell” the “client.” The eye of the ESTP is ever on the eye of the beholder, and all actions are directed toward this audience. Witty, clever, and fun, ESTPs seem to possess an unusual amount of empathy, when in fact this is not the case; rather, they are so acutely aware of minimal signals from others that they are usually several jumps ahead in anticipation of another’s position. And ESTPs can use information gained to the ends they have in mind – apparently with nerves of steel, engaging in what seems to others to be suicidal brinksmanship. Other types may find this exhausting, but ESTPs are exhilarated by working close to the edge of disaster. ESTPs are ruthless pragmatists and often offer the ends as justification for whatever means they see as necessary – regrettable, perhaps, but necessary. Usually, however, ESTPs do not care to justify actions, but prefer instead to get on to the next action.

ESTP Career

ESTP’s are outstanding as initiators of enterprises that bring people together to negotiate. They make invaluable itinerant administrators who can pull troubled companies or institutions out of the red very quickly, and with style! They can sell an idea or project in a way no other type can, but won’t follow through on the tedious administrative details of a project. This characteristic often causes ESTP’s to be unappreciated for the extraordinary talents they have, for people lose sight of the idea contributed and focus on the details left undone, becoming critical of ESTPs’ weaknesses rather than appreciating their strength. Few enterprises, which are institutionally, based use ESTPs as they should be used. When they strike out on their own, however, they do not always succeed, for their unwillingness to bother with follow-up details may cause an otherwise excellent project to fail. ESTPs need to be sure they have someone who will, take care of follow-up if at all possible.

ESTP Home

ESTPs live in the immediate moment and as mates lend excitement – and unpredictability – to the relationship. The ESTP mate is usually extremely attentive in public and smooth in social rituals. They carry on amusing repartee, and laughter surrounds them as they recount from their endless supply of clever jokes and stories. Charm radiates from ESTPs. Nothing is too good for their friends, although family responsibilities may, at times, be given second priority. The ESTP’s mate may in time come to feel like an object – the female a chattel and the male a negotiable commodity. Deep commitments do not always occur in the lives of ESTPs, although they are always popular and know many, many people by name. Relationships usually are conditional, and the condition is the consideration of what the ESTP has to gain from the relationship. Anything gained, however, is shared freely and generously with the mate. The unexpected gift, the impulsive trip to Paris, the extravagant surprise at Christmas – all these an

ESTP brings to a mate.

Fun, excitement, laughter, and that element of unpredictability are characteristic of their relationship. The ESTPs have a low tolerance for anxiety and are apt to avoid or leave situations that are consistently filled with interpersonal tensions. ESTPs are usually somewhat of a mystery to their mates and to others. Few people comprehend this unique personality. ESTPs themselves understand well the maxim, “He who travels fastest, travels alone.” Still, ESTPs are not likely to be lonely for long. ESTPs meet life with a hearty appetite for the good things of the world, searching out excitement, perhaps as a warrior, an athlete, an adventurer, or as a professional gambler, but always seeking the thrill of courting Lady Luck in one fashion or another. A theme of seeking excitement through taking of risks runs through the lives of ESTP.

Video Killed the Radio Star

Whenever Christopher and I engage in a dispute, there's always a central theme that arises.  It's the same one every time.  We'll be arguing, and inevitably he'll say something like "Lindsey, we're not Dan and Roseanne" or "This isn't TV; I'm not going to follow whatever script is in your head." On multiple levels these comments fascinate me, founded or not.

Over the past two weeks, I've been assisting with a social psychology course (acting as teaching assistant, that is), and last week someone brought up the concept of TV characters acting as a sort of pretend group of friends or family members.  It made me chuckle a bit, because that is exactly the sort of thing Chris is always talking about: our imaginary TV friends. This, of course, spurred a whole classroom debate on how television effects the way in which we engage in interpersonal relationships, cope with issues like loneliness, and compare ourselves to unattainable standards like those shown in family sitcoms (e.g., the 'middle class' family living in a five bedroom, four bathroom home within a safe, suburban neighborhood). At the end of the class, I found my self wondering if Christopher wasn't on to something.

In many ways, my parents' relationship has always mimicked a sort of 'Dan and Roseanne', 'Tim and Jill' dynamic.  In fact, whenever I feel homesick I pop in an episode of "Home Improvement" (yes, I own it.  Don't mock!). Conversely, my favorite shows, or the ones I relate to the most, are "Gilmore Girls" and "Ally McBeal", both of which star a female character who has many fun, cute quirks, is intelligent and imaginative, and talks at lightning speed. I wonder, thinking about these traits, whether I like these characters because they remind me of myself, or if I've inadvertently modeled myself after them. Likewise, have I been conducting my marriage based on the lessons I learned from watching my parents, or on the television counterparts I compare them to?  I feel like I'm stuck in an episode of the "Twilight Zone" or something.  GAH!  I did it again!!!

I have no poignant thoughts or words of advice on this issue.  Actually, I probably need the advice this time around, truthfully speaking.  Is the solution to stop watching TV?  Is merely being aware of the issue enough to curb these negative, mimicking behaviors?  Interesting questions, indeed.  If you think of a good solution let me know.  I'm going to go watch some "West Wing".

Magic Man

My Grandpa Fred died yesterday morning.  I keep trying to think of something awesome and profound to say about it, but really it's just sad.  He was a man of few words, but when he spoke it always seemed important.  When he smiled at me with pride my whole spirit lit up, because I knew that what I did meant something to him and that meant the world to me.  Most of what I learned about him through the years came in equal parts from other family members and from the subtleties in his body language and murmurs. I can't describe why in any tangible way, but I always just liked being around him; it made me feel special. My father gives off that same vibe, and I've always hoped that it was a trait I also inherited. The one thing I definitely got from my grandfather was his eyes.  People joke that I have the eyes of Renee Zellweger, but in reality I have the eyes of Fred Grimes through and through. I also got his nose and chin.

By the time I knew my grandfather his life was all about car repairs and orange groves, but I've heard stories about the crazy adventures, careers, and odd-ball career offers he had in his younger days.  Like, apparently he was approached by the executives of Burger King back when the chain was just getting off the ground and they were practically giving away franchises.  The story goes, and I quote, my grandfather told them that "no one would ever buy a hamburger out when they can just make one at home."  Whoops!

I have always taken a lot of pride in my Florida roots, which may seem ironic considering how many posts I've devoted to my need to move three-thousand miles away from there.  If you've ever seen the movie "Away We Go" (which you should, because it's fabulous), the place they end up at in the end, the Huckleberry Finn childhood paradise, is what Grimes Road is like in Wauchula.  That's right, there's actually a street named after my family. It's just a simple dirt road, surrounded by orange groves and littered with the houses of every Grimes who has ever resided there.

When Great Grandma Grimes passed away at the ripe young age of 99 the road lost a little bit of its magic, but when Grandpa Fred packed up and moved across town a few years ago much of the charm was lost forever.  Now, with his death, it seems as though my Florida heritage has died as well.  Most of the elders are gone now, most of the groves have been sold or destroyed, and many of the younger family members have moved to bigger cities. It seems strange to say it, but I'm really going to miss having a reason to visit Wauchula.  Honestly, Orlando is nothing compared to the simple beauty of rural Florida. I will truly miss my grandfather, and everything his home meant to me.

Secret Garden

Well, it's 12:50pm and I've been awake for hours now.  This may not seem like a big deal to my followers in Malaysia, but for anyone who knows me this marks a significant change in my normal routine.  Historically, I have not been a "morning person."  Growing up, mornings always came far too soon and were undoubtedly marked by a lot of tired groaning, yelling, and my mother ripping the sheets off of my bed in order to shock me awake.  God, I hated that.  For the past few months, however, I have been learning to appreciate the quiet that comes from waking early.  Instead of snapping out of bed with just enough time to take a 15 minute shower, run a brush through my hair, and sprint to the bus stop, I now enjoy waking slowly, brewing a fresh carafe of coffee, reading the daily news (aka Facebook), and puttering around our garden.

That's right, folks.  We have a garden!

I've always wanted to be the kind of person who has a garden.  When I was younger I would imagine my future to be in a house with a wood burning stove, a vegetable garden, fruit trees of all sorts, three chickens to provide me fresh eggs, two goats to do my yard maintenance and provide milk for cheese, and one cow to, you know, do cow-stuff.  Clearly, I don't exactly have the proper mindset to be a great farmer.  I never thought I would actually grow my own food or cook what I sewed, but the day before yesterday I actually got a chance to pull a carrot (not yet ripe, mind you.  I'm still learning.) out of one of my pots, peel it, and eat it!  It was pretty friggin' magical.  There's a sort of odd liberation that comes from the knowledge that you have the power to control your own sustenance. It's one of the things I love most about living in Portland, and only adds to my pre-existing snootiness over ingredients and food quality.

Don't get me wrong, I'm still a total chick when it comes to getting my hands dirty.  Once again, I count myself lucky for having found such a rugged manly-man to take care of the ickier things in life.  For instance, lately our brussels sprouts have been getting eaten alive by a colony of small, green caterpillars, which Christopher bravely picked off the plants one-by-one yesterday.  Sure, he then proceeded to dump the pile of caterpillars in our neighbors yard, but I won't tell if you don't. With any luck, our multitude of greens will survive the temporary infestation and produce hundreds of delicious sprouts for us to eat and trade for eggs around the neighborhood (all of our neighbors have chickens). Seriously, I know I live in the city but this is like my inner-country girl's dream come true!

Living in Portland has taught me many things about life, but the most important lesson so far, and certainly the most salient in today's message, has been the importance of finding ways to slow down and appreciate everything more.  If I weren't waking up early (well, earlier), I would miss out on the opportunity to experience the morning zen-sation of drinking my coffee and tending to my garden. I am especially looking forward to practicing my new morning-person-ness in the wintertime this year, when the sun goes down at 4:30pm.  Believe me, when you wake up at noon and are only able to really enjoy two or three hours of sunlight per day, the joy of sleeping in hardly seems worth it.  Sure, there's a certain amount of internal stigma that I associate with going to bed at 10:00pm and waking up at 7:00am (old lady much?), but I feel like I'm finally starting to get it.  Well, most of the time at least.