I Moved To Wordpress

Dear readers (all 8 of you),

I moved to Wordpress.

www.kahunsinger.wordpress.com

I'm still working out the kinks, but for updates, find me there.

And when I can figure out how the hell to add blogs to my reading list from the Wordpress dashboard, I'll follow you from there, too.

xo
Kelsey

The Terrible Traveler

I am a terrible traveler.

I am a stress case, and an overpacker, and an underestimator, and a poor planner, and a hotel's worst nightmare (I should know, because I work in one) - and lack all the general survival skills necessary to navigate any major city.

Here follows a hypothetical one-sided conversation with a local stranger - who initially takes pity on me, thinking I am a sweet, innocent lost young woman who needs his expertise but who gives up in exasperation in short order:

"I am lost, thank you so much for helping me! I'm trying to get to the east bay. Where in the east bay? I don't know, they told me 'east bay'. Is that not a town?  Oh, I see. Well I'm supposed take the subway. There's no subway? Just a train? Oh, I mean the train, then. Where's the subway - I mean, train? Which way? That way? Like across the marketplace or around that building? So it's underground? I thought it was a train. Wait - it goes UNDER WATER?! Yikes, I don't like that. Can I take a cab? I see...that sounds expensive. Well how do I get there?  I go 'that way'? Well what kind of direction is that? Oh, around that building. So I go around the building - the one on the right or the left? The left? Got it. And then what train do I take? The blue line? The blue line going which direction? East?  Okay, so I take the blue line east but then I thought I was trying to go north - oh, it ends up north? It doesn't? Well where does it end? So do they take cash? No? Is there any ATM around here? Let me just get my wallet.... Preferably Bank of America if you know of one; I really hate those fees at other banks, don't you? Especially when you're traveling, I mean you spend enough on the flight and everything without... Sir? ... Hello?"

And I look up and around to discover that the Good Samaritan has run for his life, departing in a flash of desperation that leaves only the faintest whiff of his good intentions behind.

It's no better at the airport. Heaven forbid you be the unlucky individual whom I have requested to drive me there, as likely you'll arrive at my home on time only to find me unprepared to leave and cramming last-minute attire and travel "necessities" into my suitcase, often including a piping hot curling iron from hair that has just been coiffed, a selection of 6 pairs of shoes that I won't wear (and only 2 that I will) and a bag of makeup that I cannot decide upon (cool- or warm-toned eyeshadow? do I need both lash-extension AND waterproof mascara?). And then, in rushing out the door, I'll realize that I've forgotten something (probably my jewelry) and will make a mad dash back upstairs to retrieve it - and then won't be able to focus on conversation all the way to the airport, because I'll be too consumed with worry about missing my flight (unlikely, as I always give myself at least an hour and a half at the airport before departure) and whether I've forgotten anything.

And somewhere in the midst of this, I'll be calling the hotel - yet again - to confirm that my room does indeed have 2 queen beds and saying to the agent something like, "I know you can't really guarantee me the garden view but could you check your inventory today and see if there's a possibility of pre-blocking? The agent last night told me you weren't at full capacity so I'd think there would be an early departure today and maybe you could put me in that room? I know I called yesterday, but I just wanted to double-check... How's occupancy these days, anyway? Oh, sure I'll hold. ... Oh, thank you so much! I so appreciate it and will happily write you a great review on TripAdvisor - what's your manager's name? I just want to be sure he/she knows what a top-notch employee you are there. So I saw the cutest little one-bedroom suite online - any chance you might be able to get me an upgrade? I mean we are staying for three nights..."

When I arrive at my destination (we'll skip over the hyperventilating on the plane, and the obsessive-compulsive checking of the seatbelt and emergency procedures before take-off - and for the record, if you sit the emergency aisle and don't look like the kind of person who'd be up to the task of saving our lives, I'm totally judging you) I'll change my credit card at check-in, and will have failed to note that there are actually 3 people in the room instead of 2 (asking the 3rd person to stand by at the elevator and look inconspicuous so we don't get caught and charged the 3rd person fee) and will forget to have cash for the housekeeper. Finally, upon departure, I'll find myself in the exact same predicament as when I left home - late, with too much gear (how do the contents of a suitcase seem to multiply by the end of a trip, even when one hasn't bought anything new?) and not enough space for it and rushing to the airport (and probably in a bad mood, because it's almost never fun to come home).

But these are just the logistics. Over the course of the trip, I will have eaten, drank and laughed (at myself, a lot, for my ridiculous travel tendencies); visited someplace new (or perhaps old and familiar and wonderful); seen longtime friends or made new ones, and discovered places, people, things and maybe even a bit of myself along the way, and will have made wonderful memories. When I travel, sightseeing isn't important - nor is scheduling time for specific activities.  When I travel, what I'm looking for is an immersion of myself in the destination - so that I simply enjoy being there.  For as much time as I spend worrying about the logistics of getting away, I find that when I finally do get there the only thing that matters to me is simply being in the destination I've chosen. What I remember, at the end of the day, is what a great time I had while I was traveling - every part of it.

So perhaps I'm not such a terrible traveler after all. But I'd suggest giving yourself 10 extra minutes when you come to pick me up.

Mathematical Equations in Dating

I'm no mathematician.

In my freshman year of college, I had to take remedial math.  Remedial math.  Like X + Y = Z kind of stuff.  Or something like that.  I don't know - I wasn't really paying attention.  Much like in high school, which I'm guessing is why I had to re-take it in the first place.

But as an adult, I've found that even though theorems and calculus rules have gone in one ear and right out the other during the course of my education, there are plenty of practical mathematical applications in my every day life.  Particularly when applied to dating.  For example, if date ideas were a mathematical equation, "dinner plus movie" would equal "yawn" - "yawn" being the truth to a proven theory that factor "dinner", when added to factor "movie" exponentially increases both parts of the equation to their highest intrinsic value and leads to answer "yawn".  ("Yawn" being the subject equivalent to a root canal.)  See how easy that equation was?  Yet, it seems to be rather difficult to understand when it comes to planning first dates.

Here's the deal:  It's not like I expect The Bachelor-style creativity (read:  reality TV-style fantasy) when it comes to first dates, but all I'm really looking for in a relationship is to connect with someone, and I've yet to find that connection over an awkward dinner and a mutually agreed-upon movie in which both parties are only semi-invested, as often neither person is willing to expose the true nature of their cinematic interests on a first date.  No, I've found that the best first connections are those which are not "dates" at all.  coffee and a stroll in the park (where the dog runs away); a lacrosse match followed by beers (where the guy's teammates show up and make themselves at home between you); playing pool at the local sports bar (where a heated argument ensues over the actual artist singing the song on the jukebox), or a Big 12 college football game (where the guy's team loses - terribly).  These are scenarios that make no logical sense whatsoever:  "attraction" plus "undesirable/embarrassing/frustrating situation" equals "inexplicable great first date".  

I'm a mathematical anomaly, because I'm a linear person, and like to go in a natural progression of order when it comes to my life - but there are some social cliches (such as dinner and a movie) that are so straight and narrow that I just can't abide by them.  Why must we "start" by "getting to know one another" in this way?  It feels to me as though the tradition of the idea of getting to know one another often supersedes actually just doing it.  There's something about the randomness - or perhaps messiness - of a non-traditional date that's so appealing to me.  Even my worst relationships have started with a great story - and at the end of the day, that's made the initial (sometimes unromantic) connection and (sometimes challenging) subsequent attempt at maintaining the relationship well worth it.  I would trade traditional first dates for witty banter and simple, human connections any day - and I'm well aware that there's nothing linear about that.  

So no offense, but I'll pass on dinner plus movie - it's not that romantic, memorable moments and conversation can't be had using that particular equation, or that outcome is the same for everyone.  Perhaps it's just that I've yet to meet the guy who can disprove the theory that "yawn" is the answer, but I'd rather play around with other factors and see if I can create my own mathematical truth in dating - even if it takes a number of failed attempts to get there.

But maybe I've got it all wrong, because I'm just not very good at math.

Flight or Flight Response

I've never been one to shy away from telling anyone what I think.  Between my smart mouth, brace face and Coke bottle spectacles as a kid, I sometimes wonder how I made it through my whole childhood and into my adult life without getting beat up.  Actually, someone did shove me into a wall in the 7th grade (which I'm sure was unprovoked...well, pretty sure) but I believe he's now incarcerated (for the record, I didn't have anything to do with that) so suffice to say he's getting his.  

But I've found as an adult that nerds with smart mouths don't get very far personally or professionally - unless they aspire to be comedians, and unfortunately the humor gene skipped me in our family - so I've made a concentrated effort to curb my commentary (for the most part).  And I've also found that where once I wouldn't have shied away from potentially awkward situations (because everything's infinitely less awkward when you have a cheeky facade to hide behind), I now am much more hesitant to put myself in scenarios that I perceive to be stressful or frustrating.  It's the phenomenon of the fight or flight response:  "When we experience excessive stress—whether from internal worry or external circumstance—a bodily reaction is triggered, called the 'fight or flight' response. Originally discovered by the great Harvard physiologist Walter Cannon, this response is hard-wired into our brains and represents a genetic wisdom designed to protect us from bodily harm." According to the great Dr. Neil F. Neimark (the first Google response for keyword search "fight or flight response" and thus the most credible), this is "...our body's primitive, automatic, inborn response that prepares the body to 'fight' or 'flee' from perceived attack, harm or threat to our survival."

Well, in my case it's more like the "flight or flight" response, as these days my inborn response to perceived stress or attack is simply to run away.

Observe, a list of daily situations, individuals and tasks I make every attempt to flee at all costs:

Frenchie, the homeless Real Change guy who stands outside my local RiteAid.
Stressor:  Parading bags of useless stuff I bought on credit in front of a homeless guy.
Flight response:  Stalk him from my apartment (I can see the RiteAid from my window) and wait 'til he steps away for a minute - then throw on a hat, run across the street, dash through the store grabbing things madly and walk out really fast, hoping he doesn't see me or engage me in conversation.

Making decisions about getting together with people when I really don't feel like it.
Stressor:  Having to tell the truth.
Flight response:  Avoid calls and don't tell the truth (ie, "I feel sick", "I have a big day tomorrow", "I'm going to work out" - ha!).  I think it's really the most mature way to manage the situation.  No one's interested in the truth.

Deadlines.
Stressor:  Deadlines.  I hate them.
Flight response:  Do...nothing.  And then race around trying to get everything done at the last minute and hope it all comes together.  I've been doing this for years and years now - I highly recommend it.  Better if your job depends it.  Fear's a great motivator.

Putting away clean dishes.
Stressor:  There's really no great stressor here - it's just that putting away clean dishes is a hateful task.
Flight response:  Leave all the dishes where they belong - in the dishwasher - and use accordingly until they are all dirty again.  Dishwashers make an excellent storage unit.

Taking the bus.
Stressor:  Ending up in Beacon Hill - or worse yet, Burien - late at night.  By myself.  Probably when my cell phone battery's almost dead and also I have no change to get home.
Flight response:  Walk everywhere, looking like a country bumpkin suburbanite in my suit pants and sneakers (as if I'm walking, I'm not going to be wearing high heels).  Get lost anyway.

Dr. Neimark says that the flight response is counterproductive, but I tend to disagree.  I get all sorts of things done by running away, as evidenced by the above.  Perhaps not as quickly or efficiently as everyone else, but I seem to manage.

And now if you'll excuse me, I must go do exactly nothing about my project that's due tomorrow, as I'm quite sure I'll have plenty of time in the morning to get it done.

Auld Lang Syne

"Should auld acquaintance be forgot
and never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot
and auld lang syne?"

In a word:  Yes.

Poor 2009.  It will never be looked upon with fondness and smiles.  Toward the end of 2008, it was pretty clear that 2009 was going to be a crappy year, and it's all 2008's fault, really.  2009 never stood a chance at being a positively memorable year.  Wait, I take that back - it was positively memorable as a really god-awful wretch of 365 days for a lot of folks.

I think most of us are ready to put "auld lang syne" - at least as it pertains to 2009 - behind us, where it belongs.  Personally, I'm trying to see the best in the year, but overall it was exhausting.  There was a slightly panicky note to every situation, a whiff of desperation and impending disaster.  Every new expense in the workplace could have meant another layoff.  Each evening phone call from an unidentified number could have been a collection agency.  A strange engine sound could have meant the difference between getting to work and getting paid to work.  Of course, all these things could have happened anyway, regardless of the down economy.  But the feeling that we were all right on the edge of lifestyle security was so pervasive in 2009 that  I can't help but feel uncharitably toward the year in general.

At the risk of sounding very Debbie Downer, I have to say that frankly, it was a tough year for me.  I traveled less to see friends and out of state family than I normally do, which was a major strain on my emotional health - and worse than the lack of travel was the feeling that I couldn't travel because I wanted to have the backup finances available to me, just in case.  I made no progress whatsoever in the department of relationships (male relationships), largely because I was so stressed out all the time that I didn't have any energy left over at the end of the day to even bother trying.  I haven't advanced at all professionally, as really I've been grateful just to have a job and with the uncertainty of revenues in the travel industry, there hasn't been any place for me to advance to in my job, so I've stayed put.  And it's been an up and down year for familial relationships as well - or, at least, I've felt it more acutely than ever.

Sigh.

I'm well aware that even though we've moved into a new year, nothing will change overnight.  Some of the things that weren't so great about 2009 for me will inevitably carry over into 2010, simply because unfortunately New Year's Eve confetti isn't actually fairy dust that automatically wipes the slate clean at midnight.  But I'm happy to put auld lang syne behind me (and yes, some auld acquaintances, too) and work on moving forward into a new year that will be remembered well.

Welcome, 2010.

Groundhog Day

New Year's resolutions are like Groundhog Day.  Not the actual day, February 2, but the movie with Bill Murray where he wakes up in the same small town and goes through the same routine, day after day after day.  In regard to "resolutions", it seems that every year is the same.  The week post-Christmas is spent in shaky sugar detox (or shaky sugar can't-let-it-go-to-waste intake, depending on how many sweets are left over from dinners, parties and Martha Stewart-style overzealous baking), and at some point (usually while stuffing your mouth) a resolve is formed to Get Serious. You say to yourself:  "Self - it's time to get a move on.  We are going to lose this holiday weight!  We are going to Be Healthy in [insert upcoming here year].  We are going to Be Motivated!  This is going to be a great year!  I can't wait to get started."

And then you look at the calendar and realize you've just declared this unshakable resolve less than 48 hours before New Year's Eve.

"What's 2 more days?" you ask yourself.  "I mean really," you rationalize, "how much more weight can I gain in 2 days?  May as well just start the diet on the first."

There!  And with that settled, you order Mexican food and a couple margaritas (really, it's still vacation, and who isn't allowed to indulge during the holidays?!) and start making plans for New Year's Eve.

Then NYE comes in a blur of reveling and merriment and too much wine/champagne/beer and you drunkenly shout "HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!" with your best friends in the world at midnight and slosh your champagne and get confetti in your hair and hug everyone and stumble home and fall asleep (read:  pass out) in a drunken stupor.

And you wake up in the new year, bleary-eyed and muzzy-headed and go straight for the coffee (with half &; half, because you need something to cut the acidity from your wasted intestines) and eggs with bacon, and maybe even a Bloody Mary with a friend (because there's a period from 10 PM to 12:30 AM that you're not entirely sure about that bears discussion, especially as you've discovered some guy's number in your pocket but no recollection of how it got there - or the guy) and spend the rest of the day off lounging in your pajamas watching Law & Order re-runs and trying not to vomit.

When the hangover's gone (1 to 3 days, depending on your age) you remember that steadfast resolve you declared pre-NYE and bust out those like-new running shoes from the previous year and a mishmash of exercise apparel that mostly fits and hit the gym, only to discover you have to spend 30 minutes sitting down, quietly reading a magazine, as all the cardio machines are taken by like-minded Determined Would-Be Athletes.  And when you finally get on the elliptical you realize you can actually only make it 20 minutes instead of 30 and you're drenched with sweat and you leave heaving but slightly elated because you made it.

This continues for a few days until you have a terrible day at work and when you get home one glass of wine turns into three, and you're feeling too sluggish to make it to the gym.  After that you have a happy hour, and then a late night at the office, and someone's bridal shower, and a bad day, and another happy hour, day after day after day until it's been 3 months since you've been to the gym and your resolve is all but gone as it's not the "new year" anymore.  

Fast forward 8 months and it's those goddamn holidays again - the baked goods, the cocktails, the late nights and waaaaaay too much family time (which, inevitably, leads to more cocktails) and suddenly you're reflecting on the past year and resolving to Make Next Year Different - again.

So maybe it's not all that bad.  I've accomplished some things over the years, but rarely have I stuck to my "resolutions" (which, traditionally, I make on my birthday anyway).  But we should be striving for lifestyle changes, not just yearly resolutions.  So this year I'm breaking tradition and starting a little early, and projecting my intention to decide what I want my life to look like, and just...do it.  Do the things that need to be done to get me there.  It might not be what I want right away, but it'll get there eventually, if I'm committed to it.

At the end of the day, isn't that the best we can do?

Girls Getting Married

I am almost thirty*.  I've spent a good amount of time this past year being horrified by that realization, a greater amount of time trying to convince myself it doesn't matter and the remainder of my time doing normal things like eating and breathing or going out with friends and doing our (read:  my) best to avoid the subject of impending disaster.

(*Note:  By "almost thirty" I mean 1 year and 2 months, or 440 days, or 10,575 hours.  Not that I'm counting.)

And as I am almost thirty, I have officially reached "that stage" of life where everyone around me appears to be coupled up, or worse yet...Getting Married.

Duh duh DUHHHHHHHHH!!!

It's true.  Alarming, but true.  It's sort of like an epidemic, or an alien drug. You know that scene in 'Signs' where the alien's fingertip opens up and a stream of poison comes out and it threatens to kill the little boy?  I imagine the Marry Fairy has something like that up her sleeve, only she specifically targets the boyfriends of marriage-ready females ages 24 - 29 with a can of whoop-ass disguised as beer that when opened emits a tiny Jack Bauer who grows to human size, locks said non-committal male into a half-Nelson and threatens to use his nuts as a practice bag for Chuck Liddell until he buys the ring and pops the question.  It's quite a vision, ain't it?  Not so unrealistic, though.  Jack Bauer is everywhere.  So is the Marry Fairy, evidently.  

The point is (despite the creative '24' storyline, which I may or may not expand upon and submit to Fox) that someway, somehow, these women are getting these guys to not only stick around not just for a couple years but until the end of time.  Or, you know, death.  Depending on what you believe.  And while I of course think all my girlfriends are lovely and amazing (uh, hel-LO, they wouldn't be my friends otherwise) I still think it's quite a feat to knock these formerly bar-hopping, torn-tee shirt-wearing, honey-I-can't-do-the-dishes-it's-game-day!-whining men into marital submission.  Funny thing is that I don't even really want to be married all that badly.  Or not at the moment, anyway, as there are no prospects, not even fixer-upper he'd-be-so-great-if-I-could-just-get-him-to-wax-his-back-and-move-out-of-his-mother's-house prospects.  Yikes.  It's a sad state of affairs, ladies.  No, it's just that I can't figure out how everyone else has done it.

And my friends have no answers.  They "just fell in love".  They "just knew".  They're so happy now, they "can't remember what it was like without each other".  Thankfully, though, my getting-married friends, in all their sage engaged state of mind, have plenty to share about their single life, getting married and all the things they can't wait to leave behind:

"That club was so awful; I can't believe single girls would ever try to pick up guys there.  Good thing I don't have to do that anymore now that I'm getting married!"

Uh, hel-LO?  I still have to pick up guys in places like that since I'm not getting married!  I'm not in a position to be quite so choosy, okay?  And I remember the time you did pick up that guy in a place like that and then we all had to talk about it for 3 months after he broke up with you because at the time you were convinced he was The One.  Yeah, take that, Miss High & Mighty.

"Last year I was pissed at my fiance so I made out with a bunch of boys at this party.  Ooooh, there's Dave, he was here last year!  He's cute!  C'mon, let me introduce you."

I'll pass on your sloppy drunk-revenge leftovers, thanks.  

"I don't know how he puts up with me, but he does!  I'm so lucky!"

Me either.  Does he have brothers?  Because I also have a bunch of emotional baggage and bad behaviors I wouldn't mind someone putting up with.  Oh, did I say that out loud?  I totally wasn't talking about you...

"I totally don't want to be one of those girls who's all 'wedding wedding wedding' and never asks about you, I want to know what's going on with YOU!  Tell me everything!  Oh, by the way, did I tell you I picked chartreuse instead of lime green? I mean I was thinking about it the other night and realized that Sarah doesn't have the right skin color for lime green and Emily's pregnant so she's going to look green anyway, hahahaha and we are going to have foliage around the alter and I don't want the bridesmaid's dresses to clash so chartreuse will be a better color, right, like halfway in between, don't you think? And OH I finally found the cutest little white chocolate favors..."
In my head, to the tune of "Baby Elephant Walk":  Dum, dah dum dah dum dum dum dum dah dah.  Duuuuuum dah dum dah dum dum dum dum dummmmmm...

And the mack-daddy of all Girls Getting Married pearls of wisdom...

"Don't you worry...what I have is out there for you, too.  We'll find you a guy next!"

"Pet project" isn't in my title as bridesmaid.

I'm aware that this kind of conversation is born of blissful happiness, a one-track focus on that long walk to the altar and a woman's desire to make everyone around her equally as excited about her wedding as she is while maintaining all the attention on herself.  Females are crafty like that.  Or perhaps my friends are cognizant of their literal state of union and my state of singularity and don't want me to feel left out.

Or there's the other, hush-hush possibility that seemingly blissful brides never want to voice aloud:  that as disjointed as I feel as a single in this stage of life, perhaps my almost-married friends feel equally disjointed about the stage of life they're leaving behind, and just need someone to go along with them to commiserate and hold their hands as they walk step by step into marriage.

And, that, Girls Getting Married, is something I'll gladly do for you.  Provided you don't pull me over to your single cousin Jimmy with the toupe and pit stains at your wedding for a slow dance. And I guess even then, I'd probably dance with him anyway, because I know it's all about you right now, so if it makes you happy I'll wear your lavender drop-waist dress with bows at the hem and stacked-heel square-toe Barney shoes and smile brilliantly for pictures on your big day.

And one of these days, when you're able to lift your head out of its bridal fog and you remember what it was like to be single like me?  Tell me.  Talk with me.  Not in a condescending, thank-God-I'm-so-far-past-that kind of way, but in the sharing, I've-sooooo-been there, I-hear-ya-sista, Oh-God-remember-that-awful-guy-I-dated-from-that-one-night-at-the-club?! kind of way.  Because at the end of the day, all throughout our friendship, we're gonna need to stick together in whatever stages we're in.

If not, I'll open a can of whoop-ass on you. And remember, when you open a can of whoop-ass, Jack Bauer jumps out.