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Somehow I am super-swamped with things to do today, but I wanted to get in a quick note on last night’s Ultimate Frisbee game so that people who see me don’t think I was involved in some kind of school yard fist fight. The bruises on my head, arms, hands, and legs are not the result of a brawl, they are the unfortunate product of playing a game with foolishly competitive men.

I feel that I should mention here- this isn’t even a real league we’re talking about. This is just a rag tag group of people who feel like running around with a bright green disc. Nevertheless. Some of these rag taggers need to chill the eff out.

One such man was so tall that when he leaped into the air to tackle the innocent frisbee his sneaker actually clipped the back of my head. This same man wore white tube socks and white Reeboks, and a too-short shirt, and I have it on good authority from a friend that he giggles when he kisses. Are your theatrical leaps trying to make up for something, sir? Hmm? So I couldn’t suppress a snort of derisive laughter when he collided with one of my teammates and his white sneakers (and even whiter legs) got dirtied and a bit bloodied.

Anyway, if I appear a bit roughed up, you now know why*. NPW plays contact frisbee, yo. Don’t front.

*Except for the ring of bruises around my knees, which are the result of having a glass table in your living room that you can’t get rid of because it was a gift from your parents.

I know some of you might be wondering why I chose to spend the summer kickoff weekend in Rock-chester and not here in my own ‘hood. The truth is, it didn’t matter in the least that I was 6 hours away- it’s all about the people you’re spending time with (or is it all about the Benjamins? Whatevs). So without any further musings, the Flour City MemDayWeekend Breakdown:

Got out there Thursday night and headed to some crazy location called 12 Corners* for some udon noodle bowls, then ate and hung out with BrickWindow boy and one of his Roch associates. (Who looks very much like Simon from Firefly. Weird.) After a full day of work, that long-ass drive, and a bunch of coconut milk, I was ready for some serious sleep.

Friday a.m. I really tried to sleep in, but once my eyes were open there was no going back to sleep. It seems all the birds of upstate NY have decided to nest right outside of The Boy’s window. So I decided to be brave and venture out on my own to find a Montana Mills bakery to get some coffee. Luckily, it’s only one road and I made it there and back without getting lost and and having to make an embarassing call to The Boy at work. Watched some tivo’d shows with The Boy’s roommate and plotted ways to abduct his cranky-cutie cat, Katie. Once the Boy got back from work (oh, work**), we met some people for dinner at Mex, where I promptly lost one of my earrings, causing the waitress to dive onto the floor under our table amidst chip remnants and salsa drippings. Props to your fortitude, waitress. Earring found, we headed back for a little nap to gear up for some X-Men action. The movie was disappointing in many ways, but was made exponentially worse by the idiots surrounding us in the theater. The dude in front of us had his stupid blinking bluetooth headset on during the movie and insisted on text messaging people until The Boy politely told him to cut the crap.

On to Saturday, which was spent gathering up items for the MemDay Cookout. We attempted to go to the Public Market for some corn on the cob action, but were mobbed by people buying $1 peonies, so we gave up and headed to my own personal heaven, Wegmans. (No offense, Trader Joes, you’re still my fave.) The cookout itself was so much fun and I got to match some names with faces, everyone was great. Also, beer + hotdogs = brilliance. Once the weather turned cool, we moved it inside for Trivial Pursuit Pop Culture face-off and we got schooled by the opposing team. Apparently my extensive knowledge of Aaron Spelling and mullets was not enough to pull out a win.

Sunday = California Rollin’ sushi, a fusion of flavors the likes of which I had never experienced. Tempura’d shrimp with Dino BBQ sauce? Yes, thanks. It also included a trip to the Eastman House Gallery (archival home of the original Star Wars and Wizard of Oz footage) and then on to my latest craze, Katamari Damacy for PS2. If you haven’t seen this game, may I suggest getting off your lazy tush and renting it immediately? Your eyes and ears will thank me. Inchling Prince= cutest ever.

Monday was breakfast on Park Ave. and some basic hanging about as I stalled on my departure time. Finally I had to suck it up and get back in the car from hell; luckily, I still had about 4 hours of the Bad Twin novel to listen to on my iPod. Unluckily, the story pretty much sucked.

So that was my weekend. Pretty complete in its awesomeness. I did miss a putt-putt tournament*** while I was gone, as well as marching bands and baton twirlers blocking my road for 4 hours, but I’ll just have to work through the pain of missing the excitement. I’m sure most people are a little bitter about the return to work after a long weekend of faux-summer fun, and I would be too… except I only have about a month left before the glory of a real summer vacay. ROCK.

*I only saw 4 of the elusive 12 corners. I guess it’s like the Enchanted Forest in the Legend of Zelda? North, west, south, west.
**It was nice to get a glimpse what the summer would be like, with others going off to work and me sitting on my duff watching The Office and Scrubs.
***You suckas are lucky I wasn’t there to kick ass in the tourney. And you know this.

When I first started this blogging business it was on a bit of a lark. An ex kept going on an on about how talented a writer I am (!) and how it would be good practice (for what, I don’t know) and how the world needs more funny people out there writing about their crazy lives. And so I did it. Flattery will get you everywhere, I guess, even if you’re an ass.

Anyway, I will admit- the idea of hundreds of people reading something I’ve written held a wild appeal. And it still does. So against my better judgement I started this little one-girl show. And now, after a few months of working out some semblance of a style and flow, I’ve realized some things about the good ol’ blogosphere.

1. Very first thing I realized: I am not, in fact, a great writer. Sometimes when I read old stuff that I’ve written, it makes me want to vomit in my shoes. But this could be good for me, as I won’t harbor any deep desire to become the next J. K. Rowling and I will be free to pursue my library dreams. Or it will at least make me think twice about confessing my girlhood love of Jordan Knight.

2. Most people do not give a crap about what I write. Or me, for that matter. So if a handful of people read this and think “cool”, I consider myself lucky. If I get more than 2 comments in a day, it’s like a gift from the heavens. (Who is the God of Blogging, anyway? I’m going with this guy… thanks for the shout out, you rock. Now when do I get to go to a Gawker media party?) It’s a far cry from the “hundreds” of people I thought would flock to my witticisms, but better than the zero hits I could be getting.

3. People seem to like my Microsoft Paint drawings more than my actual writing. Appealing to the lowest common denominator is easier than I thought.

4. I like making lists. A lot.

5. I hate blogs that have no substance. Posting 12 pictures of yourself in various vain poses is not entertainment. Unless they’re really interesting poses- I’m talking Emily Rose-style.

6. There are people out there who are way funnier than me. That was some shocking news to an egocentric New England girl like myself, but it’s the harsh reality.

7. I put actual effort into this thing. Or at least write every day (ok, most days)- which really says something, since usually I lose interest with anything new after a day or so. Translation: I must enjoy writing in this little corner of the universe.

I’m out. Kick back this weekend- the weather is not going to blow, for once in our sad northeastern lives. So eat some hamburgers and potato salad and do it up Memorial style for the N to the P to the W.

For your handy reference, I have compiled a list of the Top 5 Things That Make Me Nervous. File this information away, it may someday prove invaluable. But know this: if you choose to use this list to exploit my strange anxieties, I swear I’ll never rest till I find out what freaks you out and get you back. For reals. Anyway, just a little clarification- by “nervous” I don’t mean having-a-breakdown-checking-myself-into-Bellevue-nervous, I just mean edgy, slightly anxious, and/or irritated. In ascending order:

5. When I enter a bathroom and the stall I usually frequent is already occupied. It’s like my bathroom plans have been totally derailed and I have to regroup and search for alternatives. Like, the stall next to it. Unthinkable. Most times, I’ll just leave the bathroom and come back 10 minutes later- enough time for the offending party to leave and for the toilet seat to cool off from their ass print.
4. People that chew with their mouths open and/or hearing people chew. Gross. Really, who wouldn’t be irritated by this? I think it’s a deep-rooted distaste, possibly stemming from a detestable Uncle who used to eat macaroni and cheese. All the time. The cheese would be all smeared on his lips and when he talked or guffawed, bits of macaroni and slimy strings of cheese would fly out at you.
3. Butterflies. Freak me right out. They’re worms, people. Worms that distract you by flying at you with Spin Art wings. Don’t be fooled.
2. I have this (completely irrational) fear that if I don’t watch my garage door go down all the way that some homeless person or murderer will combat roll their way under the closing door and I will have an unhappy surprise the next time I enter my garage. Like a knife in my throat. Or a change cup thrust under my nose.

And the number one thing that causes me undue worry:

1. Smokey the Bear signs. Do you have these? They are everywhere around here, outside every fire station I pass. “Smokey the Bear Says the Fire Danger Today Is:” and then the firemen post the appropriate signage. Anything other than a “LOW” and I am on super high alert all day long for brush fires. A “MODERATE” or “HIGH” make me want to stay home from work. It’s no joke. Only you can prevent forest fires.

The library has been keeping me too busy and too tired out to give you an update on my actual daily activities. I’ve also been proctoring exams (which basically means reading out of a manual… “only use a #2 pencil and be sure to make your marks heavy and dark…”), and that pretty much sucks the life right out of me. But since you’ve all been clamoring to hear the real life 411, and I did promise you an update– here’s the digg.

1. My cousin’s baby shower last weekend was a huge success, despite the surprise not really being a surprise. The hours of work on the invitations, the RSVP headaches, the endless baby gift shopping, it all paid off in the end because my girl was happy. And got a lot of cool ass baby gifts.
2. One of the subs at school totally has a crush on me. I know because he asked me yesterday how to make copies on the risograph machine, even though I saw him making copies on Monday with no problem whatsoever. He just wanted some copy room time alone with yours truly. Suave, my friend, but the riso is not the way to my heart.
3. Mondays pilates class was redonk. As in, my abs hurt every time I check in a book.
4. The big puffer fish in the library fish tank just ripped the head off one of the smaller fish and proceeded to eat his decimated body while the other fish huddled in the corner behind the castle and watched with horror. When did Puff Daddy get so big? He’s out of our control. There’s no way to stop him! I can see the film now… “Terror In The Tank: the thrilling sequel to Finding Nemo- a Pixar Production”.
5. I have on a totally cute outfit today.
6. Last night was ultimate frisbee night but there was no ice cream action afterwards with the crew. Peanut Butter Oreo? Call me. I miss you.
7. I’m heading to NY this weekend for some MemDay fun. It’s supposed to be a glorious 80 degrees and I am very much looking forward to the grilling of various meats, the imbibing of classy beers, maybe some fireworks, and time with The Boy and his Roch peeps.

That’s it. That’s all there is to it. Nothing more to see here, folks. Move along.

True story: today I was reprimanded by the blue-eyelinered lunch lady in the snack shack for not using the magic word. Official transcript to follow.

Lunch Lady: Hey Hon, how’s it going?
NPW: Excellent. Another day closer to summer. How about yourself?
LL: Ya know. Same old.
NPW: I hear you.
LL: So what can I getcha?
NPW: I’d love some popcorn. My lunch was pretty blah today.
LL: (blank stare)
LL: (more blank stare)
NPW: Umm… are you out of popcorn? (As I stare at it gently popping and tumbling into the machine)
LL: No… no, that’s not it.
NPW: (my turn for a blank stare)
LL: You didn’t use the magic word. I was waiting for the magic word.
NPW: (slightly disconcerted) Oh. Sorry.
LL: (blanker stare)
NPW: Um. Please?
LL: (slow, satisfied grin) You betcha.

I realize not saying “please” to begin with wasn’t very Emily Post of me, but seriously with the lecture? It’s not like I said, “Hey bizotch, gimme some of that hot deliciousness back there”, or “I want that motherf’in popcorn in my motherf’in hand like now”. And also? You’re a lunch lady. And not even a real lunch lady. You work in the snack shack with the bottles of water and the bags of chips.

Bravo, Miss Manners. Thanks to you I will never again be surprised by a lecture on the word please. Next time someone asks me for the magic I’ll kick them in the shins and take the damn popcorn by force. And I’ll pack it to the top of the bag, too.

Every Sunday morning, bright and early, I steel myself for the class of torture, otherwise known as spinning. I make all the adjustments to the bike seat height, distance, the handlebars, the foot straps. I make sure to grab a towel for the inevitable and unstoppable flow of sweat, and grab another to wipe off the bike. I tighten the gel seat cover so it doesn’t come off halfway through the jumps. I line my little ticket up for easy transfer to the instructor. I make sure my water bottle is filled to the very top and wish for the millionth time I had thought to bring two bottles. Cuz I’ll be needing it. I sigh a resigned sigh.

I glare balefully at the instructor. She’s not all there- her hair is disheveled, falling out of the ponytail, and she definitely didn’t shower this morning. Her face is pale and drawn, puffy black circles under her eyes. Is she hungover? She is, isn’t she? I see her burp and then swallow something down, making a terrible face. Now I’m resentful; there’s no way I could show up to spinning hungover and survive to write about it.

I finish tightening everything up. Then, when I can’t stall anymore, I strap myself in and prepare for pain. Even through the gel and foam padding, the seat feels worse than concrete studded with stones and glass. Some terrible disco music comes on and the instructor is yelling, “Feeeeel the buuuuuurn…!” over it. I close my eyes and think briefly about throwing my water bottle at her, but resist. If only I had brought two! My legs burn, my throat burns, my face and arms are hot. L and I are thinking of doing ridiculous things like wheelies and peg stands and hip hop moves on the stationary bikes and we’re laughing through the pain.

To take my mind off the hill climb we’ve just started, I glance around and wonder how some of these women ended up here. I mean, was my gym having a Help the Homeless Get Fit Day? The giant fans whir and tilt, blowing some B.O. my way. I duck and cover. Could that lady really have saved up $80 a month in change? Seriously, she looks like she should be saving up her foodstamps, not frantically peddling to Captain Jack’s Whistle Song. The soles of her dirty Keds are cracked with age and the foot pegs have to be digging directly into her non-socked foot. Her legs are as hairy as a lumberjack’s, peeping out from hole-y Wal*Marts leggings. I’m getting a little woozy from her smell. I bury my face in my towel with the pretense of wiping sweat from my brow, but really more to get some filtered air in my lungs.

Then as quickly as it started, it’s over. The delirium clears. I lived. I walk out actually feeling pretty awesome, other than a sore ass and a strong desire to escape the homeless woman’s death smell that has followed me to the locker room. Oh, spinning. Both the bane of my existence and the path to aerobic fitness.

My words are my soldiers and they will rise up off the screen and march down onto your keyboard, across your desk, right onto your lap if need be, proud and brave. They will loyally follow my command, regardless of the direction in which I lead them. Whether they choose to attack you, assuage you, or regale you with snark and wit depends solely on my dictatorial decision. Patronizing or praising, condescending or commending, alliterative skills or no, what you read here is me. But it is not all of me.

Maybe you read this daily bunk and think, I know this girl. Or, I want to meet this girl. Or, this girl is full of shit. It doesn’t matter. Just because you read this, well…in the wise, wise words of Nikki from Save the Last Dance: that don’t mean you know me.

This is, after all, a public forum, and while I am publicly hilarious, I’m often privately quiet and introspective. Sometimes I find myself surprised that I have made it as far as I have, done as much as I’ve done, and retained so many friends. It’s strange; I rarely find myself alone, yet my center gravitates to people who need me more than I need them. I pull and pull at myself so that I can try to know people less superficially. I try to temper my independence; I want to be part of your life. But this isn’t a diary with a lock and key, tucked snugly between mattress and box spring. And communication becomes work when it isn’t glib and distracted. It’s difficult to both mean what you say and say what you mean.

So here I’ll stick to what I know. This blog makes no pretense of being an epic tour de force. What I find funny may also be amusing to you, or you may just think “God, what a tard she is”. Either way, you get a part of me and I get something in return. Not in the form of comments, since my readers are men and women of few words, apparently. But knowing someone’s interested in those tiny glimpses into my life makes this whole exhibitionist/voyeur thing we have going worth it.

See you on the weekend flip side. I’ll have lots to report. Promise.

*Rodney White’s signs are such eye candy.

Yesterday afternoon I decided to wear my I Heart Nerds t-shirt to the gym. I love this t-shirt for many reasons, not the least of which is its succinctness. There are other reasons, too: it’s generally very comfortable and a perfect fit, it has fun colors, and it sometimes elicits a smile from some of the truly nerdy men (and women) wandering around the streets of Boston. Overall, a t-shirt for the ages.

So there I am, walking with my little ear buds securely in place, happily soaking in some sun, when I start to notice something. More specifically, I start to notice that people are staring at my t-shirt much longer than needed to read the three little words (does a heart count as a word? I’m counting it) that are written across the front. Now, those of you who know me know that I am constantly cursing the fate of women having breasts. And I could be considered a chesty girl, but it’s not like the letters were stretched out over them, like the t-shirt was straining or something. Were people really just blatantly staring at my chest, though? I mean, do people really do that? I did a quick double-check to make sure I didn’t spill any high-fiber Kashi down the front or anything and when I looked up, a jogger winked at me. Then it registered: yes. People really do look at girls chests. Especially when you advertise your love for glasses and pocket protectors across it.

I know. Not exactly a revelation for most of you readers. But it was just so achingly cliché that it almost ruined my I Heart Nerds t-shirt for me. When I had almost made it to the gym door, I caught out of the corner of my eye a homeless man* waving at me, pointing at his chest, and mouthing the words “I’m a nerd! I’m a nerd!”. When he started to get up off his empty pail seat I sprinted the last 20 yards through the parking lot and slammed the gym door shut behind me, breathing the soothing eucalyptus deep into my lungs.

I guess I could just discard the I Heart Nerds t-shirt, or relegate it to pajama use only. Or maybe I just need to make some modifications?

*I must admit, this homeless man is my favorite. And by favorite I mean that he’s delightfully witty and cheerful despite his lack of teeth, his scaly skin, and the permanent muffin crumbs in his beard. But he’s definitely no nerd, hence the running.

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