Fresh Air With a Side of Ash

After getting home from work today, I needed to sit outside. Being cooped up in an office for nine hours, staring at a computer screen and attending meetings while breathing manufactured white noise, made every part of me itch to be in the fresh air. So I came home, poured a glass of wine, and now am sitting outside. Sitting outside in front of a computer. But at least the air is fresh, I can hear the birds talking to each other, and the sounds of neighboring machinery (a lawn mower? a tractor? a generator? a bulldozer? what is it?!!).

Someone is burning something nearby. It smelled amazing when I stepped out of my car and into the air. It also was another compelling reason to sit outside for a while tonight. I love the smell of campfires and wood burning. However, when I got to the back patio, the chairs and patio were covered in grayish ash. Motherfucker. Whatever the neighbors are burning is blowing into our backyard. It periodically floats down, like a light dusting of snow, which then makes me think of the stories from WWII, how survivors described how ash would fall from the sky when the Nazis burned people in the concentration camps. So my overactive imagination is telling me that the neighbors have murdered someone and I'm getting a light dusting of someone's essence lightly landing in my hair and in my wine. I realize it's probably more along the lines of debris from the yard or household garbage or a random collection of broken chairs and brooms, but I still periodically turn my head to the side and make a face, a little gag as I brush the ash from my hair.

But at least I'm sitting outside in the fresh air...

Let's Make a List

I love both the US and British versions of The Office. I've seen episodes from both series multiple times, and I just recently started watching the US version of The Office from Season 1, Episode 1 with my boyfriend because he had never seen a full episode of either series. [Insert shocked face, gasp, and an explicative here.]

Last night we reached Season 5, Episode 20, called Dream Team. This is the episode in which ***Spoiler Alert*** Michael Scott and Pam Beesly have started the Michael Scott Paper Company after quitting Dunder Mifflin. It's their first day of MSPC. At different points in the episode, Michael and Pam experience melt downs as they realize that they have quite their jobs to start a new paper company in an economy where paper companies are being replaced by big franchises like Staples and Office Supply. The answer to calming both down? Making a list of things that need to be done. Seeing the tasks at hand written down and then checking those items completed off bring both Michael and Pam back to focus and calmness.

Like Michael and Pam, I'm a list maker. I started making lists as soon as I could write full words. To Do lists, Grocery lists, What I Need to Pack lists, Places I Want to Visit lists, Goals lists, 2019 Goals lists, Blog Topic lists, Books I Want to Read lists...the list of lists goes on and on. I collect all the items on a sheet of paper, numbering each item (although sometimes I'll use a dash instead). I love the orderliness that that list brings to my life. I prefer lined paper and either a black or blue gel pen to write my lists. When I accomplish an item, the best feeling in the world is taking a black Sharpie and drawing a line through that item. If I'm at work, I'll use my dry erase board and alternate items in different colors; sometimes I'll color code them. But it's always a thick black line that gets drawn through a completed task. I used to keep them scattered about, but my ex-husband would pick them up and read them back to me, mocking the things I placed on my To Do list. He quickly made me become a closeted list maker, and today my lists are contained to one notebook. When I'm done with a list, I tear it out of the notebook and put it through the paper shredder for the ultimate feeling of accomplishment.

The lists help me organize my thoughts. It makes me feel less overwhelmed, regardless of how many items might be on that list. I don't understand the non-listmakers, the individuals who fly by the seat of their pants, no items jotted down, no black Sharpie line to indicate a sense of accomplishment. And I might create that list and procrastinate on starting it but, dammit, at least I have a list. I want to take my love of lists and force them onto others. My boyfriend has been talking about making a list of things he needs to think through, and I'm itching on his behalf to make that list. Just jot it down, I think. Use a yellow legal notepad and a quill ink pen. No numbers for you, just a flow of your thoughts down the length of the paper. Make your list. Make it. Make it now. But I can't impose my desire for him to have his list until he has it. I can't judge him for not making his list. Because sometimes I get sidetracked from a list long enough that I can't remember what the list was intended for, or the items no longer are valid, or I just don't have enough reasons to keep going with the list, and the list just ends up shredded anyway.

Now I need to go make a list...

Happy Birthday, America

This morning I visited the National World War I . Something about visiting a museum honoring the men and women who gave their lives in WWI to protect the spirit of America and the concept of freedom for both American and the individual on the Fourth of July seemed poetic and a prime example of patriotism.

This wasn't my first visit to the museum, but something about leaving the museum filled me with an immense melancholy and, admittedly, guilt. Over 37 million men, women, and children from across the world died during WWI; some civilians, some soldiers. Some gave their lives unknowingly, while others voluntarily signed on knowing that they might not make it through their service and the war. Some soldiers died a mere moments before the armistice was signed between the Allies and Germany at "the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month".

The sheer dedication and patriotism that those Americans felt to enlist in 1917 when the United States entered WWI is remarkable. While we were walking through the museum, my boyfriend asked me if I had ever considered signing up for the army. The closest I came was when I was 17; while applying for universities and writing essays for scholarships, I at some point had the Army on my list. Or maybe it was the Army's recruiters that had me on their list. I spoke to an Army recruiter at length, which ended with me getting a free pair of white tube socks with Army written lengthwise on them and several follow-up calls from their recruiters. In the end, I knew I was not a good fit for the Army: I have no upper-body strength, I hate being yelled at, the thought of killing someone terrifies me, and the late 90s were still not a good time to be female in the military. I found that I could support my country, but only from afar.

So when we stepped outside the museum, it seemed fitting that a gloomy rain had settled over Kansas City. The Fourth of July has never been at the top of my list of favorite holidays, which I have been told time and again by friends and family is un-American. However, it's not because I don't love my country. I am so grateful to live in a place that allows me the freedom to do almost anything that I could possibly imagine (really, the only thing that limits me is public nudity -- I wish it was okay to go outside in just my tank top and underwear, which I guess technically is legal, just not socially acceptable). I can vote, drink, marry who I choose, wear tank tops and short skirts in public, kiss someone I love in public, write this blog. I love the smell of fireworks, but cringe watching people set them off. I'm like a little kid when I have a sparkler on the Fourth of July, but am always slightly afraid that I'm going to light myself on fire. I feel a societal pressure to spend the holiday with friends and family, grilling out and having beers, when sometimes it just isn't possible to get together with everyone -- and sometimes, I just don't want to. I want to enjoy an entire day off from work without any pressure to be social.

I'm grateful for each day I have, but today was a reminder of just how fortunate I am.

Happy Birthday, America. Thank you for all that you have given me.